The little man obeyed, nor faltered on the rest of the journey.  The sun-eroded slope of the farther edge of the crevasse was slippery, but not steep, and he worked his way up to a narrow ledge, faced about, and sat down.

“Your turn,” he called across.  “But just keep a-coming and don’t look down.  That’s what got my goat.  Just keep a-coming, that’s all.  And get a move on.  It’s almighty rotten.”

Balancing his own stick horizontally, Smoke essayed the passage.  That the bridge was on its last legs was patent.  He felt a jar under foot, a slight movement of the mass, and a heavier jar.  This was followed by a single sharp crackle.  Behind him he knew something was happening.  If for no other reason, he knew it by the strained, tense face of Carson.  From beneath, thin and faint, came the murmur of running water, and Smoke’s eyes involuntarily wavered to a glimpse of the shimmering depths.  He jerked them back to the way before him.  Two-thirds over, he came to the depression.  The sharp edges of the crack, but slightly touched by the sun, showed how recent it was.  His foot was lifted to make the step across, when the crack began slowly widening, at the same time emitting numerous sharp snaps.  He made the step quickly, increasing the stride of it, but the worn nails of his shoe skated on the farther slope of the depression.  He fell on his face, and without pause slipped down and into the crack, his legs hanging clear, his chest supported by the stick which he had managed to twist crosswise as he fell.

His first sensation was the nausea caused by the sickening up-leap of his pulse; his first idea was of surprise that he had fallen no farther.  Behind him was crackling and jar and movement to which the stick vibrated.  From beneath, in the heart of the glacier, came the soft and hollow thunder of the dislodged masses striking bottom.  And still the bridge, broken from its farthest support and ruptured in the middle, held, though the portion he had crossed tilted downward at a pitch of twenty degrees.  He could see Carson, perched on his ledge, his feet braced against the melting surface, swiftly recoiling the rope from his shoulders to his hand.

“Wait!” he cried.  “Don’t move, or the whole shooting-match will come down.”

He calculated the distance with a quick glance, took the bandana from his neck and tied it to the rope, and increased the length by a second bandana from his pocket.  The rope, manufactured from sled-lashings and short lengths of plaited rawhide knotted together, was both light and strong.  The first cast was lucky as well as deft, and Smoke’s fingers clutched it.  He evidenced a hand-over-hand intention of crawling out of the crack.  But Carson, who had refastened the rope around his own waist, stopped him.

“Make it fast around yourself as well,” he ordered.

“If I go I’ll take you with me,” Smoke objected.

The little man became very peremptory.