Arthur was on the
right, closest to the Indians. A little ahead of him was Dinsmore.
Farther over, the Ranger's horse was already breasting the deep water.

Roberts heard young Ridley cry: "He's hit!"

The Ranger turned his head. His prisoner was sagging in the saddle.
Arthur was riding beside the wounded man and trying to support him.

Jack drew up his horse, holding it strongly against the current, until
the others were abreast of him.

"We've got to swim for it," he called across to Ridley. "I'll get him if
he slips out of the saddle before we reach shore."

The horses swam side by side. Roberts encouraged Dinsmore, riding knee
to knee with him. "Just a little way now. Stick it out.... We're right
close to the bank.... Grab the horn tight."

As Dinsmore slid into the water Jack caught him by the hair of the head.
The swift water, racing fast round the shoulder of the island, tugged
mightily at him. But the body of the Ranger's horse was a barrier to
keep the unconscious man from being swept downstream, and the fingers of
the rider clung to the thick black hair like steel clamps.

They reached shallow water. The Ranger swung from the saddle and carried
Dinsmore up through the thicket that edged the bank. The horses
clambered up without guidance, and Ridley drove them into the big rocks,
where they would be better protected from the shots of the Indians.

The Ranger chose the best cover available near the head of the island
and put the wounded man down gently on the ground. Already the Kiowas
were halfway across the river. Jack counted twenty of them on horseback
in the water.

"Can you shoot?" he asked his companion.

Ridley was behind a rock around which bushes grew thick. "B-better than
I could." He was shaking with excitement.

"You can't miss 'em. We've got 'em right this time."

Jack fired. An Indian plunged headfirst into the water like a stone from
a sling. A moment later his body could be seen swirling in the swift
current. A second shot shook the death scream from the throat of another
brave.

Twice Arthur missed.

"You've got buck-fever. Try for the horses," suggested the Texan. A
moment later he gave a little whoop of encouragement. The naked shining
body of a Kiowa had collapsed on the bare back of a pony. Ridley at last
had scored.

Instantly the nervousness of the Easterner disappeared. His shooting had
not the deadly accuracy of Roberts, but he was a good marksman, and at
this close-