Beaver Bill was just as cool and nervy as Frank was.
Both men had the pluck to face death coolly and without fear.
They were led to the verge of the plateau by the counterfeiters.
Below down a sheer descent of fully a thousand feet was Death Valley.
The hot sands lay below, baking in the blistering sun. Frank saw with an awful chill the purpose of the gang.
This was to throw them over the edge of the plateau.
It was an awful thought.
If even one should survive the fall, the deadly noxious gases would be sure to terminate life.
Frank realized this with a terrible appalling sense, such as comes to one upon the verge of an awful death.
“God help us!” he reflected. “I think this is the end.”