“Let’s make sure,” cried the voice of Canfield. He was about to dismount when Ramon checked him.
“No. I have a better way.”
A kick on the log emphasized the Mexican’s statement, and a sharp shock passed through Coyote at the thought of the awful fate in store for him. Had he had time at that moment he would have emerged from the log and risked all. But before he could move, a dozen hands laid hold of the timber and began to roll it toward the cliff edge.
“Stop!” shouted Pete.
“Ha!” exclaimed Ramon, “then I was not mistaken. Good! Go to your grave, you Yankee pig, in the coffin you have made for yourself!”
Faster and faster the log rolled, while cries of real fear and entreaty broke from Coyote’s lips. In vain he tried to extricate himself.
All at once, the log gave a clumsy leap, and, amid a brutal shout from the Mexicans, it spun over the edge of the gulch and shot sheer over into the black void that yawned below.