The spot where the auto stood was about a quarter of a mile above where the bridge joined the canyon’s bank. He had then, as he judged, plenty of room in which to get up a speed sufficient to carry him safely across the gap.
For a second the thought of failure flashed across his mind, but he did not dwell on it.
What he was about to do didn’t bear thinking of. It was a thing to be done in hot blood or not at all.
Slowly Lathrop climbed into the auto. He felt the heavy body of the car sway on its springs as he did so, and wondered at the same instant how it would feel in case of failure to be hurtling down—down—down to the depths of the canyon with the heavy car.
As he grasped the wheel and prepared to throw off his brake, he looked ahead. From where he was starting he could see the gap in the bridge yawning blackly.
It looked much further across than he had at first anticipated.
For a minute he felt like weakening and deciding not to take what seemed a fatal chance.
The thought of Frank and Harry in the hands of Luther Barr and his gang, however, steeled him. He gritted his teeth, jammed his hat back on his head and prepared for the start.
On the opposite side of the gap he could see the white, strained faces of his friends. For one brief second he looked at all this, wondering vaguely if it was to be the last time he was to see them, and then, with a deep intake of his breath, he released the brake and threw in the engine clutch to top speed. At the same moment he advanced his spark and felt the machine leap forward on the steep incline like a creature suddenly let loose from a leash.
Down the steep grade dashed the machine, sometimes seeming to leap several feet in the air and come down with a terrific crash as it struck the ground.