He did not hurry the horse.  He merely walked in front holding the bridle slackly.  The horse followed him as good as gold—­and picked up his feet at nearly every spike.  Once or twice a hind hoof grazed a spike-head with a rasping sound that sent Racey’s heart bouncing up into his throat.  Lord, so much depended on a safe passage!

For the first time in his eventful life Racey Dawson realized that he possessed a full and working set of nerves.

When they reached firm ground Racey flung the reins to Molly.

“Unpack the dynamite,” he cried.  “It’s in the slicker.”

With his bowie he began furiously to dig under the end of the stringer where it lay embedded in the earth.  Within ten minutes he had a hole large enough and long enough to thrust in the whole of his arm.  He made it a little longer and a little wider, and at the end he drove an offset.  This last that there might be no risk of the charge blowing out through the hole.

When the hole was to his liking, he sat back on his haunches and grabbed the dynamite sticks Molly held out to him.  With strings cut from his saddle, he tied the sticks into a bundle.  Then he prepared his fuse and cap.  In one of the sticks he made a hole.  In this hole he firmly inserted the copper cap.  Above the cap he tied the fuse to the bundle with several lappings of a saddle-string.

“There!” he exclaimed.  “I guess that cap will stay put.  You and the hoss get out of here, Molly.  Go along the trail a couple of hundred yards or so.  G’on.  Get a move on.  I’ll be with you in a minute.  Better leave my rifle.”

Molly laid the Winchester on the grass beside him, mounted the horse, and departed reluctantly.  She did not like to leave Racey now.  She had burned out her “mad”.  She rode away chin on shoulder.  The cedars swallowed her up.

Racey with careful caution stuffed the dynamite down the hole and into the offset.  Then he shovelled in the earth with his hands and tamped it down with a rock.

Was that the clack of a hoof on stone?  Faint and far away another hoof clacked.  He reached up to his hatband for a match.  There were no matches in his hatband.  Feverishly he searched his pockets.  Not a match—­not a match anywhere!

He whipped out his sixshooter, held the muzzle close to the end of the fuse and fired.  He had to fire three times before the fuse began to sparkle and spit.

Clearly it came to his ears, the unmistakable thudding of galloping hoofs on turf.  The posse was riding for the bridge full tilt.  He picked up his rifle and dodged in among the trees along the trail.  Forty yards from the mined stringer he met Molly riding back with a scared face.

“What is it?” she cried to him.  “I heard shots!  Oh, what is it?”

“Go back!  Go back!” he bawled.  “I only cut that fuse for three minutes.”

Molly wheeled the horse and fled.  Racey ran to where a windfall lay near the edge of the cleft and some forty yards from the stringer.  Behind the windfall he lay down, levered a cartridge into the chamber, and trained his rifle on the bridge head.