cept that
Pauline was near, was in peril, and he must reach her.

How, by road and trail, he ever reached the Valley of the Death Stone
Harry never knew. Perhaps chance, perhaps some invisible courier
guided him to the lonely spot. After long, hard riding he was
attracted by the low rumble of many voices lifted in a sort of chant.
Following the voices, he came to the foot of a steep cliff side where a
long trench, partly of natural formation, partly hewn from the stone,
made a chute or runway from mountain top to valley.

At the upper end of the runway a motley band of Indians were engaged in
some weird worship. Harry started his horse up the steep in the
shelter of the woods. When he came to a spot where a huge tree limb
crossed the runway, he remembered the little half breed's words, "Climb
the tree; it is the only chance."

Almost at the same instant from the midst of the Indian group emerged
two giant braves carrying a white woman between them. They placed her
in the runway. Her golden hair, unbound, floated on the wind.

Harry choked back a cry, threw aside his rifle, caught the lariat, and,
swinging up the tree, crawled swiftly out on the overhanging limb.
Concealed by the foliage he waited.

A rifle cracked, and, for the first time, he saw that at the top of the
runway, behind Pauline, the stood a mighty boulder, almost perfectly
round, the diameter of which--about five feet--fitted the trench so
well that it could roll in it like a ball in a bowling gutter.

None even among the Indians knew how many times the Stone of Death had
rolled and been dragged back again to the top of the cliff. The stains
upon it were unnumbered. Up on its surface was written in blood the
doom of the false prophets and pretending immortals. None had ever won
in the race with the Death Stone.

The crack of the rifle was the signal for a group of red men to press
behind the stone to free it on its fearful course. It was also the
signal for Pauline to run. Her hair streamed wildly in the wind as she
sped, like a frightened deer, down the deadly path.

The rifle sounded again and the Indians heaved the stone into the
trench.

It rumbled as it came on. It gained upon the fleeing girl. They had
planned to prolong the torture by giving her a hopeless lead.

Dancing, gesticulating, shouting, the Indians watched the race. Only
one watcher was silent and motionless. Hidden by the leaves he braced
himself upon the tree