The two men, racked with fury and terror, ridiculous in their trussed-up state, motionless and strained, crouched in terror while the bullets passed all around them.  Inspector French tapped Long Jim on the shoulder.

“Look here,” he remonstrated, “you’re looking for trouble.  You can’t treat the representatives of the law like this.”

Long Jim turned slowly around.  His politeness was ominous.

“Say, you got me scared,” he replied.  “Am I going to be hung?”

“The law must be respected,” French said firmly.  “Untie those men.”

Long Jim scratched his head for a moment.

“Say, Mr. Inspector,” he remarked, “you’re a fine man in your way but you weigh too much—­that’s what’s the matter with you.  Boys,” he added, turning around, “what’s the best exercise for reducing flesh?”

“Dancing,” they shouted.

Long Jim grinned.  He fell a little back.  Suddenly he lowered his gun and shot into the ground, barely an inch from French’s feet.  The Inspector leaped into the air.

“Once more, boys,” the cowboy went on.  “Keep it up, Inspector.  Jump a little higher next time.  You barely cleared that one.”

The bullets buried themselves in the dust around the Inspector’s feet.  Fuming with anger, French found himself continually forced to jump.  The two deputies, forgotten for the moment, watched with something that was almost like a grin upon their faces.  Laura, protesting loudly, was obliged more than once to look away to hide a smile.  Jim at last slipped his gun into his holster.

“No more ammunition to waste, boys,” he declared.  “Untie the guys with the warrant and bring out the bottle of rye.  Say,” he went on, addressing the deputies as they struggled to their feet, “and you, Mr. New-Yorker, is it to be friends and a drink, or do you want a quarrel?”

The deputies were very thirsty.  The perspiration was streaming down French’s forehead.  They all looked at one another.  Laura whispered in French’s ear and he nodded.

“We’ll call it a drink,” he decided.

* * * * *

The hunted man turned around with a little gasp.  Before him was the rude mountain bridge, and on the other side—­freedom.  Scarcely a dozen lengths away was Lenora, and close behind her came Quest.  He slackened speed as he walked his horse cautiously on to the planked bridge.  Suddenly he gave a little cry.  The frail structure, unexpectedly insecure, seemed to sway beneath his weight.  Lenora, who had been riding fast, was unable to stop herself.  She came on to the bridge at a half canter.  Craig, who had reached the other side in safety, threw up his hands.

“Look out!” he cried.  “My God!”

The bridge suddenly collapsed as though it had been made of paper.  Lenora, grasping her horse, was thrown into the stream.  Quest, galloping up, was only able to check himself just in time.  He flung himself from his horse, and plunged into the stream.  It was several moments before he was able to reach Lenora.  From the opposite bank Craig watched them, glancing once or twice at the bridge.  One of the wooden pillars had been sawn completely through.