Over the bridge of swaying planks raced the exultant mountaineers with their missiles; and Huayca, realizing at last what the queer situation meant to him, redoubled his efforts to loosen his hands so that he could free his bound feet.
Down the ladder, which they had saved and drawn up when it had been cut free, went Tom, Nicky, Mr. Whitley and Cliff.
Two of the enemy had not reached the bridge; they turned as they saw the youthful trio and man drop down the side of the ledge; but Cliff and Tom, first down, plunged at them so menacingly in the dark that they ran out a ways on the bridge.
Mr. Whitley carried an axe, and Tom and Cliff and Nicky all had strong claspknives.
While the men on the bridge wondered, hesitated, those far toward the other side were pelting the campfire in the chasm with their rocks, shouting and yelling so that they did not hear the warnings of their comrades whom Nicky held off with the rifle because Mr. Whitley was swinging the axe with steady, telling strokes.
Crunch! Smash! Crumble!
One strand of the two great cables supporting the bridge planks was cut.
Then the men saw what was happening and turned to rush back across the swaying, teetering, weakening structure.
But Tom and Cliff were hacking away the smaller twists of osier so that soon there was a space several feet wide where there was no support for the planks.
Crack! Crack! Crunch! Crash!