"Waded in the dark; there is good bottom. Send a man over with a
couple of horses."

The officer turned and spoke to the others grouped beside him; then
raised his voice again.

"Are you sure there is no quicksand?"

"None to hurt; come straight over the end of that sand spit, and then
swerve about a dozen feet to the right to keep out of a hole. The
water won't go to a horse's belly. Try it, Wasson, you ought to know
me."

"You 're 'Brick' Hamlin, ain't you?"

"A good guess, Sam; come on."

Two troopers left their saddles, and the third man, the one answering
the last hail, gathered the reins in one hand, and spurred his horse
confidently into the brown water. Following the Sergeant's shouted
directions, the three animals plunged forward and came dripping up the
low sand bank. The rider, a sallow-faced man clad in rough corduroy,
patched and colorless, leaned over and held out his hand.

"Dern yer o' skin," he said solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eyes,
"ye 're sure got the luck of it. Ain't seen ye afore fer two years."

"That 's right, Sam; down on the Cowskin, wasn't it? Who 's over
there?"