"They've gone an' strung it south of the creek as well! Red!
Johnny! Lanky!" he shouted at the top of his voice, hoping to be heard
over the groaning of injured cattle and the general confusion. "Good
Lord! _are they killed_!"
They were not, thanks to the forced slowing up, and to the pool of water
and mud which formed an arm of the creek, a back-water away from the
pull of the current. They had pitched into the mud and water up to their
waists, some head first, some feet first, and others as they would go
into a chair. Those who had been fortunate enough to strike feet first
pulled out the divers, and the others gained their feet as best they
might and with varying degrees of haste, but all mixed profanity and
thankfulness equally well; and were equally and effectually disguised.
Hopalong, expecting the silence of death or at least the groaning of
injured and dying, was taken aback by the fluent stream of profanity
which greeted his ears. But all efforts in that line were eclipsed when
the drive foreman tersely explained about the wire, and the providential
mud bath was forgotten in the new idea. They forthwith clamored for war,
and the sooner it came the better they would like it.
"Not now, boys; we've got work to do first," replied Hopalong, who,
nevertheless, was troubled grievously by the same itching trigger
finger.
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