They rocked around the arrowhead grove of trees and saw the bridge before them—­one stringer.  There had been two stringers and adequate flooring when Racey had seen it last.  The snows of the previous winter must have been heavy in the Frying-Pan Mountains.

Molly shivered at the sight of that lone stringer.

“The horse is done, and so are we,” she muttered.

“Nothing like that,” he told her, cheerfully.  “There’s one stringer left.  Good enough for a squirrel, let alone two white folks.”

“I—­I couldn’t,” shuddered Molly.

They had stopped at the bridge head, Racey had dismounted, and she, was looking down into the dark mouth of the cleft with frightened eyes.

“It must be five hundred feet to the bottom,” she whispered, her chin wobbling.

“Not more than four hundred,” he said, reassuringly.  “And that log is a good strong four-foot log, and she’s been shaved off with the broadaxe for layin’ the flooring so we got a nice smooth path almost two feet wide.”

In reality, that smooth path retained not a few of the spikes that had once held the flooring and it was no more than eighteen inches wide.  Racey gabbled on regardless.  If chatter would do it, he’d get her mind off that four-hundred-foot drop.

“I cue-can’t!” breathed Molly.  “I cue-can’t walk across on that lul-log!  I’d fall off!  I know I would!”

“You ain’t gonna walk across the log,” he told her with a broad grin.  “I’ll carry you pickaback.  C’mon, Molly, slide off.  That’s right.  Now when I stoop put yore arms round my neck.  I’ll stick my arms under yore legs.  See, like this.  Now yo’re all right.  Don’t worry.  I won’t drop you.  Close yore eyes and sit still, and you’ll never know what’s happening.  Close ’em now while I walk round with you a li’l bit so’s to get the hang of carryin’ you.”

She closed her eyes, and he began to walk about carrying her.  At least she thought he was walking about.  But when he stopped and she opened her eyes, she discovered that the horse was standing on the other side of the cleft.  At first she did not understand.

“How on earth did the horse get over?” she asked in wonder.

“He didn’t,” Racey said, quietly, setting her down, “but we did.  I carried you across while you had yore eyes shut.  I told you you’d never know what was happenin’.”

She sat down limply on the ground.  Racey started back across the stringer to get the horse.  He hurried, too.  That posse they had seen in the valley!  There was no telling where it was.  It might be four miles away, or four hundred yards.

“C’mon, feller,” said Racey, picking up the reins of the tired horse.  “And for Gawd’s sake pick up yore feet!  If you don’t that dynamite is gonna make one awful mess at the bottom of the canon.”

Dynamite!  Mess!  There was an idea.  Although in order to spare Molly an extra worry for the time being, he had told her they would push on together, it had been his intention to hold the bridge with his rifle while Molly rode alone to the Cross-in-a-box for help.  But those six sticks of dynamite would simplify the complex situation without difficulty.