“I’m lighter than you by forty pounds,” Carson said.  “Let me go first.”

They stood on the edge of the crevasse.  It was enormous and ancient, fully a hundred feet across, with sloping, age-eaten sides instead of sharp-angled rims.  At this one place it was bridged by a huge mass of pressure-hardened snow that was itself half ice.  Even the bottom of this mass they could not see, much less the bottom of the crevasse.  Crumbling and melting, the bridge threatened imminent collapse.  There were signs where recent portions had broken away, and even as they studied it a mass of half a ton dislodged and fell.

“Looks pretty bad,” Carson admitted with an ominous head-shake.  “And it looks much worse than if I wasn’t a millionaire.”

“But we’ve got to tackle it,” Smoke said.  “We’re almost across.  We can’t go back.  We can’t camp here on the ice all night.  And there’s no other way.  Shorty and I explored for a mile up.  It was in better shape, though, when we crossed.”

“It’s one at a time, and me first.”  Carson took the part coil of rope from Smoke’s hand.  “You’ll have to cast off.  I’ll take the rope and the pick.  Gimme your hand so I can slip down easy.”

Slowly and carefully he lowered himself the several feet to the bridge, where he stood, making final adjustments for the perilous traverse.  On his back was his pack outfit.  Around his neck, resting on his shoulders, he coiled the rope, one end of which was still fast to his waist.

“I’d give a mighty good part of my millions right now for a bridge-construction gang,” he said, but his cheery, whimsical smile belied the words.  Also, he added, “It’s all right; I’m a cat.”

The pick, and the long stick he used as an alpenstock, he balanced horizontally after the manner of a rope-walker.  He thrust one foot forward tentatively, drew it back, and steeled himself with a visible, physical effort.

“I wish I was flat broke,” he smiled up.  “If ever I get out of being a millionaire this time, I’ll never be one again.  It’s too uncomfortable.”

“It’s all right,” Smoke encouraged.  “I’ve been over it before.  Better let me try it first.”

“And you forty pounds to the worse,” the little man flashed back.  “I’ll be all right in a minute.  I’m all right now.”  And this time the nerving-up process was instantaneous.  “Well, here goes for Rogue River and the apples,” he said, as his foot went out, this time to rest carefully and lightly while the other foot was brought up and past.  Very gently and circumspectly he continued on his way until two-thirds of the distance was covered.  Here he stopped to examine a depression he must cross, at the bottom of which was a fresh crack.  Smoke, watching, saw him glance to the side and down into the crevasse itself, and then begin a slight swaying.

“Keep your eyes up!” Smoke commanded sharply.  “Now!  Go on!”