The road ahead was a slanting one.  A steep grade fully half-a-mile long led to a stone bridge crossing a river.  It was so steep that Andy wondered that Lute did not stumble.  The wagon wheels ground and slid so that the vehicle lifted at the rear, as if its own momentum would cause a sudden tip-over.

“We’ll never reach the bottom of the hill,” decided Andy.  “My! we’re going!”

He shouted out words of direction to the horse he had heard Ripley employ.  Lute did not hear, at least did not heed.  Andy remembered now that in stopping the horse Ripley had used the reins.

He held his breath as, striking a rut, the wagon bounded up in the air.  He clung for dear life, with one hand clutching the ventilator bars as the vehicle was flung sideways over ten feet, threatening to snap off the wheels, which bent and cracked on their axles at the terrific strain.

Contrary to Andy’s anticipations they neared the bottom of the hill without a mishap.  Suddenly, however, he gave a shout.  A new danger threatened.

The bridge had large stone posts where it began.  Then a frail wooden railing was its only side protection.  The roadway was not very broad.  Two full loads of hay could never have passed one another on that bridge.

“There’s a team coming,” breathed Andy.  “We’ll collide, sure.  Whoa! whoa!” he yelled through the grating.  “No use.  It’s a smash, and a bad one.”

Andy fixed a distressed glance on the team half-way across the bridge.  A collision was inevitable.  Lute, striking the level, only increased her already terrific rate of speed.

Andy took heart, however, as she swerved to one side.

The intelligent animal appeared to enjoy her wild runaway, and wanted to keep it up.  Apparently she aimed to keep precisely to her own side of the road and avoid a collision.

The driver of the team coming had jumped from his seat and pulled his rig to the very edge of the planking.  All might have gone well but for a slight miscalculation.

As Lute’s feet struck the bridge plankway, she pressed close to the right.  The wagon swerved.  The front end of the box landed squarely against the stone post.

The shock was a stunning one.  It tore the wagon shafts, harness and all, clear off the horse.  With a circling twist the vehicle reversed like lightning.  The box struck the wooden rail.  This snapped like a pipe stem.

Lute, dashed on like a whirlwind, the driver of the other team staring in appalled wonder, the box slid clear of the plankway and went whirling to the river bed fifteen feet below.

Andy was thrown from side to side.  Then, as the wagon landed, a new crash and a new shock dazed his wits completely.  He was hurled the length of the box, his head fortunately striking where the newspaper bag intervened.

Judging from the concussion, Andy decided that the wagon box had landed on a big rock in the river bed.  There it remained stationary.  He struggled to an upright position.  One arm was badly wrenched.  His face was grazed and bleeding.