“The black path may be full of holes,” he said, admonishingly. “Wait! we’ll light the way.”
“Then be quick about it, Mack. My gal’s in danger.”
The half-breed stripped his hunting-jacket from his burly form, and wrapped one sleeve about a knife. A lucifer match ignited the improvised torch, and, with a bright glare above his head, he started forward.
All at once Donald McKay paused on the edge of the corridor, and turned to his companions.
“Look!” he said, holding the torch in a position that enabled all to see the Devil’s Bridge.
They did look and beheld two men—Indians—struggling like demons on the rocky arch, which, every second, they threatened to desert for the blackish water.
“Let ’em fight it out,” said the ranger chief, “then we’ll cross the river.”
But the next instant a cry pealed from Artena’s lips, and her slender hand pointed forward.
“See!” she cried. “Cohoon is on the bridge! He not dead after all. See! see!”
“By my heart! she’s right,” exclaimed McKay, “and the other Indian is—”