"Why, that smoke's coming up from those trees!" declared Nat as they topped the rise, and saw below them the familiar panorama of undulating mountain tops, spreading to the sky line in seeming unending billows.
Sure enough, as he said, the smoke was coming from some great timber-clad slopes directly in front of them.
"May be some more campers," suggested Joe.
"Not likely," said Cal gravely, "no campers would light a fire big enough to make all that smoke."
Nat did not reply, being too busy applying the brakes as the road took a sudden steep pitch downward. At the bottom of the dip was a bridge, made after the fashion of most mountain bridges in those remote regions. That is to say, two long logs had been felled to span the abyss the bridge crossed. Then across these string pieces, had been laid other logs close together. The contrivance seemed hardly wide enough to allow the auto to cross. Grinding down his brakes Nat brought the machine to a halt.
"I guess we'd better have a look at that bridge before we try to cross it," he said, turning to Cal.
"Right you are, boy," assented the ex-stage driver, getting out, "this gasolene gig is a sight heavier than anything that bridge was ever built for. Come on, Joe, we'll take a look at it."
Accompanied by the young Motor Ranger the Westerner set off at his swinging stride down the few paces between the auto and the bridge. Lying on his stomach at the edge of the brink, he gazed over and carefully examined the supports of the bridge and the manner in which they were embedded in the earth on either side.
Then he and Joe jumped up and down on the contrivance and gave it every test they could.
"I guess it will be all right," said Cal, as he rejoined the party.