The others, arming themselves in the same way rushed toward the window. Through its broken panes a volley was discharged down the canyon. A chorus of derisive yells greeted it from Morello's band.
"Yell away," snarled Cal, "maybe you'll sing a different tune before daybreak."
In the meantime Nat had emerged on the roof of the cabin. It was a difficult task he had set himself and this was but the first step. But as the volley rang out he knew that the attention of the outlaws had been distracted momentarily and he wriggled his way down toward the eaves at the rear of the hut. Luckily, the roof sloped backward in that direction, so that he was screened from the view of any one in front.
Reaching the eaves he hung on for a second, and then dropped the ten feet or so to the ground. Then crouching like an Indian he darted through the brush till he reached the side of the old flume.
He noted with satisfaction that the water was still running in a good stream down the mouldering trench. With a quick, backward look, Nat cast off his coat and boots, and flinging them aside picked up a board about six feet long that lay near by.
The water at the head of the flume traversed a little level of ground, and here it ran more slowly than it did when it reached the grade below. Extending himself full length on the board, just as a boy does on a sleigh on a snowy hill, Nat held on for a moment.
He gave one look about him at the moonlit hills, the dark pines and the rocky cliffs. Then, with a murmured prayer, he let go.
The next instant he was shooting down through the flume at a rate that took his breath away. All about him roared the voices of the water while the crosspieces over his head whizzed by in one long blur.