"Yes, and I'm going to use it," shouted the boy. "Call off your dynamiters!"
"Hurry! Fire the powder!" was the answer of the strikers.
Rush stepped to the edge of the bridge and looked down. The men were attaching the fuses to the sticks of dynamite as they ran.
Steve raised the rifle, took careful aim and fired. The foremost man dropped his dangerous burden and uttered a yell. A ball had passed through his arm.
"Back, you hounds; or I'll riddle every man of you."
Once more the rifle spoke, but the bullet missed its mark. It had the effect of stopping the man who was trying to reach the bridge to plant the explosive and touch off the fuse.
The dynamiters backed off. They had not bargained for this. The men on the surface made a hostile movement toward Steve, whereupon he threw the muzzle of the rifle about, covering them.
"Come on; come on, if you want some of the same medicine!" he cried.
Bang!
A yell floated up from the mountain gorge. The Iron Boy had fired just in time to head off another man of that little party below. Now he kept menacing them with his weapon. Now and then he would send a shot close to them when he thought they were getting ready for another charge. This continued for fully half an hour, when the dynamiters drew back for a consultation. A man was sent to the surface to urge the miners to rush the bridge and throw the boy over. But the strikers up there had no mind to face his ready weapon at short range. Jeers, howls and cat-calls were hurled at the plucky boy who stood there in that wind-swept spot a hundred feet in the air with the temperature below zero, unmindful of taunts, but alert and watchful.