A hundred yards below he found them, dripping and weak from the struggle, yet otherwise unhurt.

There were no words spoken, but black and white hands clasped silently, and then Neb crept back into the saddle, shivering in his wet clothes as the cool night wind swept against him.

Keeping close in toward shore, yet far enough out so that the water would hide their trail, the fugitives toiled steadily up stream, guided only by the black outline of the low bank upon their left..