which was the broken bridge, and also the temporary one, shunting off at a sharp angle from the main highway.

"Look out! Hold on!" once more cried Blake, speaking in quick tones.

For a moment Joe wondered at the added caution, and then he sensed what Blake was about to do.

To one side of them stretched a level field. The road made a slight detour about it, just before meeting the ravine, and by crossing this field it was possible for the boys to reach the bridge ahead of the swaying carriage. But at the speed they were now running it was dangerous, and risky in the extreme, to run across the uneven meadow. Blake, however, evidently was going to chance it.

"Hold fast!" he cried once more, and Joe had no more than time to take a firmer grip on the bar in front of him, and to cling with his legs to the foot supports and saddle, than they were off the road, and into the green field. The fence had been taken down to allow for the storage of bridge-building material in the meadow.

"Now we'll get him!" cried Blake, but he spoke too soon. For the motor cycle had not gone ten feet into the uneven field, jolting, swaying and all but throwing off the moving picture boys, than the sound of the explosions suddenly ceased, and the machine began to slacken speed.

With a quickness that was added to by the rough nature of the ground, the motor cycle slowed up and stopped.

"What's the matter?" cried Joe, putting down his feet to support the machine.

"Something's busted—gasoline pipe, I guess!" cried Blake. "Come on! We've got to run for it!"

The accident had occurred only a short distance from the road. Together the two chums, leaping clear of the motor cycle, made for it on the run.

But they were too late. They had a glimpse of the runaway horse dashing straight at the fence barrier.

The next moment there was a splintering crash, and he was through it.

"Oh!" cried Blake.

The thunder of the horse's hoofs on what was left of the wooden approach to the broken bridge drowned his words.

Then the animal, with a leap, disappeared over the jagged edges of the planks. The boys expected to see the carriage and the two occupants follow, but to their intense surprise, the vehicle swayed to one side, caught somehow on one of the king beams of the bridge and hung there.

"Come on!" cried Blake, increasing his speed; "we've got a chance of saving them yet!"

CHAPTER III

They reached—only just in time—the broken and collapsed carriage with its two front wheels mere twisted and splintered spokes. The moving picture boys reached it, and with strong and capable hands pulled it back from the brink of the ravine, over which it hung. In the depths below the horse lay, very still and quiet.

"Pull back!" directed Blake, but Joe needed no urging. A slight difference—inches only—meant safety or death—terrible injury at best, for the ravine was a hundred feet deep. But those few inches were on the side of safety.

So evenly was the carriage poised, that only a little strength was needed to send it either way. But Joe and Blake pulled it back on the unwrecked portion of the bridge approach.

The two men were still on the seat, but it had broken in the middle, pitching them toward the center, and they were wedged fast. Hank Duryee, the town livery driver, did not seem to be hurt, though there was an anxious look on his face, and he was very pale, which was unusual for him.

As for the other man he seemed to have fainted. His eyes were closed, but his swarthy complexion permitted little diminution in his color. There was a slight cut on his head, from which had trickled a little blood that ran down to his white collar.

"Easy, boys!" cautioned Hank, and his voice rasped out in the quiet that succeeded the staccato noise from the motor cycle. "Go easy now! A touch'll send us down," and he gazed shudderingly into the depths below.

"We've got you," Blake assured him, as he and Joe drew still farther back on the platform of the bridge what was left of the carriage. As they did so one of the rear wheels collapsed, letting the seat down with a jerk.

"Oh!" gasped Hank, and a tremor seemed to go through the insensible frame of the other.

"It's all right," Blake assured the livery stable driver. "You can't fall far."

"Not as far as down—there," and Hank pointed a trembling finger into the depths of the ravine.

"Can you get out—can you walk?" asked Joe.

"Yes. I'm more scared than hurt," Hank made answer.

"How about him?" asked Blake, motioning to the other occupant of the carriage.

"Only a little cut on the head, where he banged, up against the top irons, I guess. A little water will fetch him around. My! But that was a close shave!"

He staggered out on the broken bridge. His legs were unsteady, through weakness and fear, but not from any injury.

"How did it happen?" asked Joe.

"Horse got scared at something—I don't know what—and bolted. I didn't want to take him out—he's an old spitfire anyhow, and hasn't been driven in a week. But this feller was in a hurry," and he nodded toward the unconscious man, "and I had to bring him out with Rex—the only horse in the stable just then.

"I said I was afraid we'd have a smash-up, and we did. The line busted near Baker's place, and—well, here we are."

"Better here than—down there," observed Joe in a low voice.

"That's right," agreed Hank. "Now let's see what we can do for him. Hope he isn't much hurt, though I don't see how he could be."

"Who is he?" asked Blake, but the livery stable driver did not answer. He was bending back the bent frame of the dashboard to more easily get out the swarthy man. Joe and Blake, seeing what he was trying to do, helped him.

Soon they were able to lift out the stranger, but there was no need of carrying him, for he suddenly opened his eyes, straightened up and stood on his feet, retaining a supporting hand on Hank's shoulder.

"Where—where are we?" he asked, in a dazed way. "Did we fall?"

He spoke with an accent that at once told Blake and Joe his nationality—Spanish, either from Mexico or South America.

"We're all right," put in Hank. "These young fellows saved us from going over into the gulch. It was a narrow squeak, though."

"Ah!" The man uttered the exclamation, with a long sigh of satisfaction and relief. Then he put his hand to his forehead, and brought it away with a little blood on it.

"It is nothing. It is a mere scratch and does not distress me in the least," he went on, speaking very correct English, in his curiously accented voice. He appeared to hesitate a little to pick out the words and expressions he wanted, and, often, in such cases, the wrong words, though correct enough in themselves, were selected.

"I am at ease—all right, that is to say," he went on, with a rather pale smile. "And so these young men saved us—saved our lives? Is that what you mean, señor—I should say, sir?" and he quickly corrected his slip.

"I should say they did!" exclaimed Hank with an air of satisfaction. "Old Rex took matters into his own hands, or, rather legs, and we were just about headed for kingdom come when these fellows pulled us back from the brink. As for Rex himself, I guess he's gone where he won't run away any more," and leaning over the jagged edge of the bridge the stableman looked down on the motionless form of the horse. Rex had, indeed, run his last.

"It is all so—so surprising to me," went on the stranger. "It all occurred with such unexpected suddenness. One moment we are driving along as quietly as you please, only perhaps a trifle accentuated, and then—presto! we begin to go too fast, and the leather thong breaks. Then indeed there are things doing, as you say up here."

He smiled, trying, perhaps, to show himself