k!"

She was amazed and frightened. Then her eye caught the little sputtering
of sparks along the fuse. It further startled her.

"It's Mr. Frank and somethin's burnin' close beside him!"

Suspicion flashed into her mind like lightning, followed, almost
instantly, by firm conviction.

"It's a fuse," she cried, "an' thar by him is th' bomb! It's Joe Lorey's
work! Oh, oh--"

She sprang down the rough path toward the place where, ever since she
could remember, the little bridge had swung. Now, though, it was gone.

"The bridge!" she cried. "The bridge! It's gone! I can't cross! I've got
to see him die!"

Her frantic eyes caught sight of the frayed rope, dangling from the
firm supports which had so long held up the bridge by means of it.
Instantly her quick mind saw the only chance there was to save the man
whom, now, she knew she loved. She sprang for the rope and caught it,
gave herself a mighty push with both her agile feet, and, hanging above
certain death if hold should fail or rope break, swung across the chasm
and found foothold on the mainland.

In another second she was at the side of the unconscious man. Another
and she had the cartridge, sputtering fuse and all, in her right hand,
another and the deadly thing was hurtling to the bottom of the deep
ravine, whence an almost immediately ensuing crashing boom told her that
she had not arrived a moment sooner than had been essential to the
salvation of the man she loved.

She knelt by Frank, pulled his head up to her knee, chafed at his
insensate hands, and called to him wildly, fearing that he was dead.

CHAPTER XII

Joe Lorey was unhappy in his mountains. After the visiting party had
gone down from Layson's camp, and, in course of time, Layson himself had
followed them because of the approach of the great race which was to
make or mar his fortunes, the man breathed easier, although their coming
and the subsequent events had made, he knew, impressions on his life
which never could be wiped away. He hated Layson none the less because
he had departed. He argued that he had not gone until he viciously had
stolen that thing which he, Lorey, valued most: the love of beautiful
Madge Brierly. He brooded constantly upon this, neglecting his small
mountain farm, spending almost all his time at his illegal trade of
brewing untaxed whisky in his hidden still, despite the girl's continual
urgings to give up the perilous occupation before it was too late. He