No. A clump of pines lay straight ahead. Behind those, waiting, ready to roar and spring perhaps?

Strangely enough, though he moved forward silently, Ballard was not thinking of the bear. He was thinking instead, of the little drama, that like a moving picture, was being played out beneath them. The swaying bridge, the mule, the gray haired benefactor of a whole community, all played a part in the drama, that for the time, was hidden from their view. What was happening? Would the man go on the bridge in an attempt to save the mule? Mr. MacQueen loved Uncle Mose, indeed he loved every one. That mule was Uncle Mose’s chief treasure. Without him, he could not earn a living. If the gray haired man went on the bridge, would it break? And if it did? Ballard could not bear to think. And all the time he was speeding forward.

Soon he would be at a point where once more he could look down and see that bridge. From this point, by following a trail that was little more than a chance to slide over the rocks, he could hope to reach the bridge.

“But first the bear,” he thought. “I must be careful. I must—”

He broke short off. Just at that moment, a mountain of dark, brown fur, went rolling away from him to disappear through a dark hole that led into the side of the mountain.

“The cave!” Ballard panted. “I forgot all about it! He’s gone in there. We’re safe. But come on. Come on quick!”

One moment more and they were looking down on the bridge. The mule was still there. It seemed more than probable that his fat sides had stuck between the wires along each side of the bridge, that he could neither go ahead nor turn back. This, the boys will never know for certain.

Their eyes did not linger long on the mule for there, stepping boldly out on the slightly swaying bridge, that even seen from above appeared to shudder, was the mysterious, little gray haired man, Malcomb MacQueen.

“Go back! Go back!” Ballard shouted these words. But the wind was against him. The aged man was slightly deaf. Apparently he did not hear for he walked straight on.

The three boys stood aghast, watching. Now he was ten feet from the solid rock he had left, now twenty, now thirty.

“I—I’m going down there,” Bex muttered hoarsely. Next instant like a miniature landslide, he went plunging down the perilous slope.

Cupping his hands, Ballard shouted once again:

“Go back! Mr. MacQueen! Go back!”

This time, his voice, sharpened with an edge of despair, carried far. The man on the bridge paused. He looked up. Ballard heaved a sigh of relief. “Surely now he will turn back,” he told himself.

But apparently he had not been understood for the old man merely waved a hand, then went on, a step, two, three steps,—while the ancient, rusty bridge shuddered and swayed more and more.

Then, when all hope seemed gone, a miracle appeared to have happened. Bex who, mere seconds before, had stood beside the boys, appeared at the end of the bridge beneath them.

“Mr. MacQueen!” he screamed, “go back! The bridge is not safe. Too much weight. It will break. Go back! Go back!”

“It’s Sambo,” was the astonishing reply. “What could Uncle Mose do without Sambo?” He took one more step.

“Mr. MacQueen go—” Bex did not finish for at that instant the thing happened. Something like a pistol shot rang out, the breaking of one cable. For ten terrible seconds, while the man clung to wires and the mule hung trapped in midair, the other cable held. And then, with a sickening swirl, the bridge went crashing down and over until it struck the rocky wall below.

“Come—come on,” Ballard breathed hoarsely. “We got—gotta’ go down.”

Just how they went down that rocky wall, Johnny will never know. Now he found himself hanging by his hands to a ledge feeling with his toes for a foothold, now racing along a shelving bit of rock where a slip meant disaster and now, gripping the root of a gnarled and twisted tree, he fairly threw himself into the waiting arms of an evergreen below.

A short, brief, breath-taking struggle, it was. Bruised and scratched but with no serious injuries, they reached the bottom at last.

To their vast surprise, as they neared the wreck of the bridge, some huge creature reared himself on high, uttered a startling “he-haw-he-haw,” and went clattering away over the dry bed of the ravine.

“It’s Sambo!” Johnny said in an awed whisper.

“You can’t kill a mule,” Ballard muttered. “He should have known that.” He pointed at a crumpled heap of gray on the ground. That heap was Malcomb MacQueen.

With aching heart, the mountain boy bent over him.

“He’s unconscious, but he’s breathing,” he said slowly. “We’ve got to get him out of here. It’s less than a half mile to the end of the run. Then there’s a meadow.”

“And an airplane,” Johnny replied hopefully. “Remember? That plane landed there.”

“That’s right!” A look of hope came to Ballard’s face. “Do you suppose he—but we’ll have to have some way to carry him.”

“Here!” Johnny’s strong arms were tearing away at a short section of the broken suspension bridge. “Here I’ll tear this off. Break those wires. There, there you are! Now. Just lift him up. Gently! Gently!”

The groans of the aged man, as he was moved, brought tears to Ballard’s eyes.

Strangely enough, Johnny was thinking. “He made something out of nothing, sold it and used the money to help others, took gold from the sky, you might say. This man did that.” Little did he dream that his words “took gold from the sky” were almost literally true.

But there was no time for wandering thoughts. There was need now for strength, speed and wisdom. The bed of the dry stream over which they must travel was boulder-strewn and rough.

Strong arms and willing hearts enabled them to accomplish the difficult task. Just as the stranger in his airplane was warming up his motor for a take-off, he saw two boys come out on the end of the meadow. They were carrying something. He guessed it might be an injured person. They put down their burden and waved frantically. Shutting off his motor, he hurried toward them.

“What’s happened?” he demanded when he came racing up to them.

“The bridge! The—mule,” little Bexter stammered. “He—he fell.”

“You see,” Johnny explained more coherently. “The suspension bridge fell when he was on it. We—we’re afraid he’s badly hurt.”

“Let’s look him over.” The aviator was young, brisk and business-like. His slim fingers moved rapidly over the silent form. “Leg broken, that’s sure,” he muttered. “Bump on the head, not too bad.

“We’ve got to get him to a doctor at once.” His voice took on a note of command. “Where’s the nearest doctor?”

“At the Gap, fifteen miles away!” Ballard’s tone told his despair. “Wagon road, all rocks. Take hours!”

“That’s out!” the aviator decided instantly. “Come on,” he said to Johnny. “Lift him up. I’ll take this end, now! March!” He led the way toward the airplane on the double-quick.

“I’ve got blankets. Make him a litter on the floor of my airplane cabin. We’ll have him at a city hospital in short notice,” the aviator said.

“You’ll take him by air?” Ballard stared.

“Sure! Why not?”

“Tha—that,” Ballard replied huskily, “will be noble.”

“Now then,” the pilot said ten minutes later. “Who’s going along to