But it was only for the flash of a second that the picture was shut out. There was a shout and the sound of a crash. The great horse reappeared at the sharp angle of the path, rearing high on its hind legs, with its rider clinging precariously to its perpendicular body as he struggled frantically with the stirrups as if trying to kick free. The animal backed wildly against the frail wooden rail on the left––erected there simply for the safety of pedestrians in the dark. The fence gave way like matchwood, the rearing figure of the horse with its rider balanced 378 on the edge for a moment, then slowly toppled backward amid a rush of loose, falling debris, sheer two hundred feet to the rocky bed of the shallow water of the Lake below.
Phil was petrified at the sight, but he quickly regained his composure, left his dying horse and ran forward to the scene of the accident.
Jim Langford, Howden, McConnachie and the ever-ready Morrison of The O.K. Company came racing along behind, reaching the place simultaneously with him.
Immediately on the other side of the cut-away, an old Chinaman was lying nursing a damaged and bloody head, and about him was littered the wreckage of his broken wagon and scattered vegetables; while his ramshackle horse was grazing unconcernedly a few yards farther along.
“By God!––we got him,” again exclaimed Howden, mopping his face as he got off his horse.
They peered over the edge of the precipice.
“Dead, I guess, from the looks of that tangle down there!” said Jim.
“Have you any idea who he is?”
“No!” answered Phil. “An old, hard-nut, evidently. He is masked and wears a beard. I am positive, though, that the horse is Brenchfield’s. They must have known its matchless speed and stolen it. He sure was some rider to take a chance with that brute.”
“Gee!––the Mayor’ll have a cat-fit when we tell him. He was bugs on that horse o’ his,” said Howden.