Suddenly New York Harry started forward, knife in hand.
But he paused a second later, for a man had dropped upon the shore—a man whom he could almost touch with his outstretched arm. And the aperture was darkened again.
“All right,” whispered the man, in a cautious tone. “The coast is clear.”
The Indian started, and hugged the black wall with his beautiful captive. He dared not retreat, for the loose pebbles would betray him.
Then he saw two other figures join the first, and after a short council all glided away—down the river.
New York Harry drew a breath of relief, and resumed his journey once more.
“If I wasn’t going away for good to-night,” he murmured, “I’d spoil the plans of them three pale faced dogs. Perhaps Mouseh will discover before day that Donald McKay is not dead—that he still tramps the lava-beds, and that with Kit South and this pale girl’s dog of a lover. Let them go. New York Harry is done mixing in their affairs; he wouldn’t turn back now to save the whole Modoc nation!”
The next moment he reached the foot of a strange bridge, that spanned the stream with a single arch.
To the person acquainted with the wondrous interior of the lava-beds, the mention of this bridge will occasion no surprise. The great convulsion of nature that cast the locale of our story into such a horrid mold, fashioned the bridge, as the Modocs believe, for the passage of evil spirits across the stream, and therefore no Indian had the hardihood to approach the spot.
But “desperate diseases need desperate remedies.” None but a giant could stem the torrent and gain the opposite bank by swimming, and the bridge was the only avenue of escape that presented itself to the traitor.