In the morning the sheriff went to the island. He reported the place deserted. He made many other trips. Sometimes he took a deputy with him; more often he rode unaccompanied. Richard Gordon lay helpless in a burning fever, with Paul Langford in constant and untiring attendance upon him. George Williston was a sadly shattered man.  
“I met Black on the corner west of Gordon’s office,” he explained, when he could talk. “I had not been able to sleep, and had been walking to tire my nerves into quiet. I was coming back to the hotel when I heard Black’s shot and then Mary’s. I ran forward and met Black on the corner, running. He stopped, cried out, ‘You, too, damn you,’ and that’s the last I knew until the boys picked me up.”
 
These were the most interested—Langford, Gordon, Williston. Had they been in the count, things might have been different. It is very probable a posse would have been formed for immediate pursuit. But others must do what had been better done had it not been for those shots in the dark. There was blood outside Gordon’s window; yet Black had not crawled home to die. He had not gone home at all,—at least, that is what the sheriff said. No one had seen the convicted man after his desperate and spectacular exit from the courtroom—no one at least but Louise, Mary, and her father. Mary’s shot had not killed him, but it had saved Richard Gordon’s life, which was a far better thing. It was impossible to track him out of town, for the cattle had trampled the snow in every direction.
 
The authorities could gather no outside information. The outlying claims and ranches refuted indignantly any hint of their having given aid or shelter to the fugitive, or of having any cognizance whatsoever regarding his possible whereabouts. So the pursuit, at first hot and excited, gradually wearied of following false leads,—contented itself with desultory journeys when prodded thereto by the compelling power of public opinion,—finally ceased altogether even as a pretence.
 
One of the first things done following the dramatic day in court had been to send the officers out to the little shanty in the valley where the half-breed lay dead across the threshold. A watch was also set upon this place; but no one ever came there.
 
August had come again, and Judge Dale was in Kemah to hear a court case.
 
Langford had ridden in from the ranch on purpose to see Judge Dale. His clothes were spattered with mud. There had been a succession of storms, lasting for several days; last night a cloud had burst out west somewhere. All the creeks were swollen.
 
“Judge, I believe Jesse Black has been on that island of his all the time.”
 
“What makes you think so, Langford?”
 
“Because our sheriff is four-flushing—he always was in sympathy with the gang, you know. Besides, where else can Black be?”
 
Dale puckered his lips thoughtfully.
 
“What have you heard?” he asked.
 
“Rumors are getting pretty thick that he has been seen in that neighborhood on several occasions. It is my honest belief he has never left it.”
 
“What did you think of doing about it, Langford?”
 
“I want you to give me a bench warrant, Judge. I am confident that I can get him. It is the shame of the county that he is still at large.”
 
“You have to deal with one of the worst and most desperate outlaws in the United States. You must know it will be a very hazardous undertaking, granting your surmises to be correct, and fraught with grave peril for some one.”
 
“I understand that fully.”
 
“This duty is another’s, not yours.”
 
“But that other is incompetent.”
 
“My dear fellow,” said the Judge, rising and laying his hand on Langford’s big shoulder, “do you really want to undertake this?”
 
“I certainly do.”
 
“Then I will give you the warrant, gladly. You are the one man in the State to do it—unless I except the gallant little deputy marshal. You know the danger. I admire your grit, my boy. Get him if you can; but take care of yourself. Your life is worth so much more than his. Who will you take with you?”
 
“Munson, of course. He will go in spite of the devil, and he’s the best man I know for anything like this. Then I thought of taking the deputy sheriff. He’s been true blue all along, and has done the very best possible under the conditions.”
 
“Very good. Take Johnson, too. He’ll be glad to go. He’s the pluckiest little fighter in the world,—not a cowardly hair in his head.”
 
So it was agreed, and the next morning, bright and early, the little posse, reinforced by others who had earnestly solicited the privilege of going along, started out on its journey. The rains were over, but the roads were heavy. In many places, they were forced to walk their mounts. No one but the initiated know what gumbo mud means. Until they took to the hills, the horses could scarcely lift their feet, so great would be the weight of the sticky black earth which clung in immense chunks to their hoofs. When they struck the hills, it was better and they pressed forward rapidly. Once only the sheriff had asserted that he had run across the famous outlaw. Black had resisted savagely and had escaped, sending back the bold taunt that he would never be taken alive. Such a message might mean death to some of the plucky posse now making for the old-time haunts of the desperado.
 
The sun struggled from behind rain-exhausted clouds, and a rollicking wind blew up. The clouds skurried away toward the horizon.
 
At White River ford, the men looked at each other in mute inquiry. The stream was a raging torrent. It was swollen until it was half again its ordinary width. The usually placid waters were rushing and twisting into whirlpool-like rapids.
 
“What now?” asked Baker, the deputy-sheriff.
 
“I’m thinkin’ this here little pleasure party’ll have to be postponed,” vouchsafed one of the volunteers, nodding his head wisely.
 
“We’ll sure have to wait for the cloud-bust to run out,” agreed another.
 
“Why, we can swim that all right,” put in Langford, rallying from his momentary set-back and riding his mount to the very edge of the swirling water.
 
“Hold on a minute there, Boss,” cried Jim. “Don’t be rash now. What’s the census of ’pinion o’ this here company? Shall we resk the ford or shall we not?”
 
“Why, Jim,” said Paul, a laugh in his blue eyes, “are you afraid? What’s come over you?”
 
“Nothin’. I ain’t no coward neither, and ef you wasn’t the Boss I’d show you. I was just a thinkin’ o’—somebody who’d care—that’s all.”
 
Just for a moment a far away look came into the young ranchman’s eyes. Then he straightened himself in his saddle.
 
“I, for one, am going to see this thing through,” he said, tersely. “What do you say, Johnson?”
 
“I never for one minute calculated on doing a thing else,” replied the deputy marshal, who had been standing somewhat apart awaiting the end of the controversy, with a good humored smile in his twinkling blue eyes.
 
“Good for you! Then come on!”
 
Paul urged Sade into the water. He was followed unhesitatingly by Munson, Johnson, and Baker. The others held back, and finally, after a short consultation, wheeled and retraced their steps.
 
“I ain’t no coward, neither,” muttered one, as he rode away, “but I plumb don’t see no sense in bein’ drownded. I’d ruther be killed a roundin’ up Jesse.”
 
The horses which had made the initial plunge were already in water up to their breasts. The current had an ominous rush to it.
 
“I don’t care. I didn’t mean to hold over and let our quarry get wind of this affair,” cried Langford, over his shoulder. “Keep your rifles dry, boys!”
 
Suddenly, without warning, Sade stepped into a hole and lost her balance for a moment. She struggled gallantly and recovered herself, yet it weakened her. It was not long before all the horses were compelled to swim, and the force of the current immediately began driving them down stream. Sade fought bravely against the pressure. She was a plucky little cow pony and loved her master, but it was about all she could do to keep from going under, let alone making much headway against the tremendous pressure of the current. Langford’s danger was grave.
 
“Steady, my girl!” he encouraged. He flung his feet free of the stirrups so that, if she went under, he would be ready to try it alone. Poor Sade! He should hate to lose her. If he released her now and struck off by himself, she might make it. He had never known White River to run so sullenly and strongly; it would be almost impossible for a man to breast it. And there was Mary—he could never go back to her and claim her for his own until he could bring Black back, too, to suffer for her father’s wrongs.
 
At that moment, Sade gave a little convulsive shudder, and the water rolled over her head. Langford slipped from the saddle, but in the instant of contact with the pushing current, his rifle was jerked violently from his hand and sank out of sight. With no time for vain regrets, he struck out for the shore. The struggle was tremendous. He was buffeted and beaten, and borne farther and farther down the stream. More than once in the endeavor to strike too squarely across, his head went under; but he was a strong swimmer, and soon scrambling up the bank some distance below the ford, he turned and sent a resonant hail to his comrades. They responded lustily. He had been the only one unhorsed. He threw himself face downward to cough up some of the water he had been compelled to swallow, and Munson, running up, began slapping him vigorously upon the back. He desisted only to run swiftly along the bank.
 
“Good for you,” Jim cried, approvingly, assisting Langford’s spent horse up the bank. Coming up to the party where Langford still lay stretched out full length, Sade rubbed her nose inquiringly over the big shoulders lying so low, and whinnied softly.
 
“Hello there!” cried Paul, springing excitedly to his feet. “Where’d you come from? Thought you had crossed the bar. Now I’ll just borrow a gun from one of you fellows and we’ll be getting along. Better my rifle than my horse at this stage of the game, anyway.”
 
The little party pushed on. The longer half of their journey was still before them. On the whole, perhaps, it was better the crowd had split. There was more unity of purpose among those who were left. The sun was getting hot, and Langford’s clothes dried rapidly.
 
Arrived at the entrance of the cross ravine which Williston had once sought out, the four men rode their horses safely through its length. The waters of ............