He looked about him. Not far away was part of a dead tree branch, thick as his arm.
"Just what I need!" he exclaimed.
He ran to pick up the branch and, returning with it, set one end under the balanced rock, that was still swaying slightly from his exertions.
"Now for a last try!" murmured the lad.
He bent his weight on the long end of the improvised lever. The rock seemed to rise from its socket bed, and to sway outward. There was an exultation in the boy's heart. He thought, in another instant, that he could send the great stone crashing down into the midst of the Yaquis.
Then, suddenly there came a sharp report, and Floyd felt himself falling.
His first feeling was that he had been shot and that this was the end. But he felt no pain, save a sudden bump as he sprawled on the rocks, and then he realized what had happened.
He had pressed so heavily on the old and dried piece of wood that it had snapped and broken with a report like that of a pistol, and he had dropped.
"Too bad!" murmured Floyd.
As he picked himself up he saw two of the Yaqui Indians running around a rocky corner. They had evidently been drawn to the place by the sound.