Save yer own, too, fer we're going to need 'em.

That water out thar is plumb up to my neck.

Come on now; keep them things dry, an' don't bother 'bout me." He plunged in, and Westcott followed, both cartridge belts held above his head.

There was a crackling of bushes on the bank behind them, showing their pursuers had crossed the road and were already beating up the brush.

Neither man glanced back, assured that those fellows would hunt them first in the chaparral, cautiously beating the coverts, before venturing beyond.
The water deepened rapidly, and Westcott was soon to his waist, leaning to his right to keep his feet; he heard the marshal splashing along behind, convinced by his ceaseless profanity that he also made progress in spite of his shortness of limbs.