Suddenly a flash of light sprang up almost under the horse’s feet.  The beast flung its head up, and next moment they were flying at a gallop down the winding and almost precipitous trail.  Alton’s strength had not returned to him, and he set his lips, realizing the uselessness of it as he shifted his numbed hands on the bridle.  Twice the horse stumbled, but picked up its stride again, and the man had almost commenced to hope they might reach the foot of the declivity when it stumbled once more, struck a young fir, and reeled downwards from the trail.

It all happened in a moment, but there was just time enough for Alton to clear his feet from his stirrups, and though he was never quite sure what next he did he found himself sitting in the snow, shaken and dazed by his fall, while the horse rolled downwards through the shadows beneath him.  He heard the brushwood crackle, and then a curiously sickening thud as though something soft had fallen from a height upon a rock.  After that there was an oppressive silence save for a faint drumming that grew louder down the trail.

Alton unslung the rifle which still hung behind him, and crawled behind a big hemlock that grew out of the slope.  He could hear nothing but the increasing thud of hoofs for a while, and then there was a sound that suggested stealthy footsteps in the darkness up the trail.  Alton crouched very still and waited, but the footsteps came no nearer, and then pitching up the rifle fired in their direction at a venture.  The sound ceased suddenly, and while the great trunks flung back the concussion it was evident that the rider was coming on at a furious gallop, and Alton rising sent out a hoarse cry, “Pull him before you come to the edge of the dip!”

The beat of hoofs sank into silence, and a shout came down.  “Hallo.  Is that you, Harry?”

“Yes,” said Alton.  “Lead your beast down.”

It was five minutes later when Seaforth found him leaning against a tree with the rifle in his hand.

“What was the shooting for, and where’s your horse?” said he.

Alton appeared to laugh softly and venomously, and his voice jarred upon the listener.  “Down there, and stone dead.  The last drop’s most of a hundred feet,” he said.

“But how did he get there?” and Seaforth felt a little chill strike through him.

Alton grasped his arm, and his voice was harsher still.  “This is the second time.”

“Good Lord!” said Seaforth, who understood him, huskily.

“Well,” said Alton, “I think the thing’s quite plain.  If we could get down to the poor beast I figure we’d find something that had no business there under the girth or saddle.  The rest is simpler—­a little coal oil or giant powder, and—­just at the turning yonder—­a lariat across the trail.  That man knows his business, Charley.”

“Good Lord!” said Seaforth once more.  “It’s devilish, Harry.  You’re not going to tell anybody, and repeat the mistake you made?”