the school at the fork of the river. “Wouldn’t do that and then go peddling poisonous moonshine,” Johnny thought. There had been men who did good deeds to cover up the evil that was hidden in their hearts. But somehow, he had a feeling that moonshine was not the answer. “What can it be?” he asked himself. Johnny’s reflections were broken in upon by a word from Ballard.

“Listen,” he whispered, as seizing Johnny’s arm he brought him to a sudden halt.

To Johnny’s keen ears came a faint, high keyed sound.

“It’s a pig, a young pig! He’s squealing. Something’s got him!” It was Bex who whispered this excitedly.

For one full minute the three boys stood there, breathing softly, silently listening. Then Ballard murmured low, “He’s coming this way. We—we’d better hide.” His eyes, searching the ridge above, spied a cluster of beech trees clinging to the rocks. “Up! Up there.”

Next instant, without a sound they were scrambling from rock to rock on their way up. Just as they reached the cluster of trees, Ballard’s foot loosened a rock that went bumping and bounding downward to make at last one wide leap and land in a narrow meadow far below.

“Oh!” On Ballard’s face was a look of consternation.

Johnny’s lips formed one word: “Why?”

“There’s been hog stealin’,” Ballard whispered. “Uncle Mose Short has lost three. Lige Field lost two. If we catch the thief it will just naturally be something.”

For some little time after that there was silence. From time to time, ever a little louder, there came the frantic appeal of the pig.

Then, quite suddenly, a fresh sound burst upon their ears. A blue and white airplane came swooping across the ridge.

“Going to Frankfort,” Johnny suggested, “or Louisville.” To him the soaring plane was not a novel sight. To the mountain boys, it was an object of wonder. Even Johnny was surprised and a little startled when the plane, instead of streaking across the sky, circled twice then, like some lone, wild duck, came to rest on the narrow meadow far below.

“Motor trouble forced him to land, perhaps,” Johnny whispered.

“Reckon we can’t hardly be sure of that,” was Ballard’s surprising reply. “Judge Middleton rented that meadow to a stranger. When he asked him what he meant to do with it he said he wasn’t prepared to say. Mebby he’s just got it for his airplane.”

“Boy! Oh, boy!” Bex whispered excitedly. “I sure do hope so! I’ve always wanted to see one of them things right close up. I—”

“Sh!” Ballard put a hand over the small boy’s mouth. There was scarcely need for this. At that moment from very close at hand, there came the heart-rending cry of a baby pig in mortal terror. And, before one of the boys could move or breathe, along the trail, below them and all too close, there came the hugest bear they had ever seen. And closely gripped between his gleaming teeth was the hopeless porker.

“There—there’s your hog thief,” Johnny whispered low, as the bear vanished round a boulder. “What you going to do about it?”

“N—not a thing,” Ballard stammered. Whereupon the three boys, seized with a nervous desire to laugh, all but burst their sides holding in.

In the midst of this, Ballard sobered with a suddenness that was startling. With a shaky finger he pointed as he hissed: “Look! Just look down there!”

The other boys looked, then stared. Almost directly beneath them was a narrow, swinging bridge across a rocky chasm. It was a foot bridge made of boards and light cables. Ballard had crossed this bridge hundreds of times, but always on foot. Never had he seen horse or mule attempt to cross it. But at this moment, as they stared, expecting instant catastrophe, they saw, standing at the very center of the old and fragile bridge, a huge, black mule.

“It’s Sambo,” Ballard said hoarsely. “Uncle Mose Short’s Sambo! Poor old Uncle Mose! His mule will never make it. The cables are sure to break. The mule will be killed. It’s the only mule Mose ever had, or ever will have. Wonder what made him try to cross?”

“Got untied somehow,” Bex suggested. “Went out hunting for Mose. We got to do something. We really must.”

Just at that moment, the small pig gave an unearthly squeal.

“The bear!” Ballard whispered in an awed tone. “He’s up there ahead of us on the trail somewhere. There’s no way to get down to the bridge but to go right up ahead there where the bear went.”

Johnny rose. He wanted to go but something seemed to hold him back. He knew Uncle Mose, the oldest mountaineer of that region, knew and loved him. Uncle Mose was a famous cook. He could make the most marvelous stewed chickens and dumplings. Uncle Mose’s mule should be saved somehow. But how?

Just then Ballard spoke. “Look! There’s someone coming from the other way! Why! It’s Mr. MacQueen! The man that owns our mill!”

Johnny stared. So that was the man! The man who went down into that mysterious lower portion of the ancient mill. “He takes down empty jugs and brings them back up full,” he whispered to himself.

“Malcomb MacQueen, that’s his name,” Ballard said as if he had read Johnny’s thoughts.

This small, gray haired man with a quick nervous stride had appeared around a bend. At sight of the mule on the bridge, he stopped and stared. He stood there for ten seconds only. Then he sprang forward.

“Look!” Ballard was on his feet, ready to slide down the slope to the trail and to follow that trail, to face the bear and fight him if he must. “Look! Mr. MacQueen is going on the bridge! And he must not! Must not! The cables won’t hold another pound. One side is half rusted away. Come on! Come on! Come quick!” Slipping and sliding, he led the way down the steep slope to the trail below.

Johnny’s mind was in a whirl. “The bear, the bridge, the mule, Malcomb MacQueen,” he thought over and over. For all that, he followed Ballard as closely as he dared.

Strangely enough, at that moment, like a sudden burst of light, his duty to Hillcrest College and the coach stood out before him. If he went down there when would he come back? Somehow he felt himself being drawn from the path of duty. And yet, when approaching tragedy calls, one must obey that call.

CHAPTER II
THE BRIDGE FALLS

The moments that followed were the wildest ever experienced by the young trio, Johnny, Ballard, and Bex. Casting aside all caution, they went gliding down the rocky mountainside at a perilous speed.

“Come on!” Ballard cried. “We gotta’ stop him, save him. He’s the best man that ever lived. He’s fed folks when they were nearly starving. He put our school back where it’s fine. He—he’s helped hundreds of people. Now if the bridge breaks—if he goes down—”

He did not finish. His feet came down hard on the narrow trail. This brought back to his mind with the force of a blow, the realization that but a moment before, a huge bear had gone up that trail. The bear carried a half-grown pig in his mouth.

“You don’t dare molest a dog when he’s eating,” he whispered to his companions. “No more do you dare interfere with a bear. But we gotta’ go that way. Have to be sly and cautious, that’s all. Not a word now.”

Next instant, on tiptoe but with utmost speed, he was away.

Johnny caught his breath, then followed. Little Bex brought up the rear. Now they rounded a huge boulder. Was the bear there?