THE BRIDGE FALLS
The moments that followed were the wildest ever experienced by the young
trio, Johnny, Ballard, and Bex. Casting aside all caution, they went
gliding down the rocky mountainside at a perilous speed.
“Come on!” Ballard cried. “We gotta’ stop him, save him. He’s the best
man that ever lived. He’s fed folks when they were nearly starving. He
put our school back where it’s fine. He—he’s helped hundreds of people.
Now if the bridge breaks—if he goes down—”
He did not finish. His feet came down hard on the narrow trail. This
brought back to his mind with the force of a blow, the realization that
but a moment before, a huge bear had gone up that trail. The bear carried
a half-grown pig in his mouth.
“You don’t dare molest a dog when he’s eating,” he whispered to his
companions. “No more do you dare interfere with a bear. But we gotta’ go
that way. Have to be sly and cautious, that’s all. Not a word now.”
Next instant, on tiptoe but with utmost speed, he was away.
Johnny caught his breath, then followed. Little Bex brought up the rear.
Now they rounded a huge boulder. Was the bear there? No. A clump of pines
lay straight ahead. Behind those, waiting, ready to roar and spring
perhaps?
Strangely enough, though he moved forward silently, Ballard was not
thinking of the bear. He was thinking instead, of the little drama, that
like a moving picture, was being played out beneath them. The swaying
bridge, the mule, the gray haired benefactor of a whole community, all
played a part in the drama, that for the time, was hidden from their
view. What was happening? Would the man go on the bridge in an attempt to
save the mule? Mr. MacQueen loved Uncle Mose, indeed he loved every one.
That mule was Uncle Mose’s chief treasure. Without him, he could not earn
a living. If the gray haired man went on the bridge, would it break? And
if it did? Ballard could not bear to think. And all the time he was
speeding forward.
Soon he would be at a point where once more he could look down and see
that bridge. From this point, by following a trail that was little more
than a chance to slide over the rocks, he could hope to reach the bridge.
“But first the bear,” he thought. “I must be careful. I must—”
He broke short off. Just at that moment, a mountain of dark, brown fur,
went rolling away from him to disappear through a dark hole that led into
the side of the mountain.
“The cave!” Ballard panted. “I forgot all about it! He’s gone in there.
We’re safe. But come on. Come on quick!”
One moment more and they were looking down on the bridge. The mule was
still there. It seemed more than probable that his fat sides had stuck
between the wires along each side of the bridge, that he could neither go
ahead nor turn back. This, the boys will never know for certain.
Their eyes did not linger long on the mule for there, stepping boldly out
on the slightly swaying bridge, that even seen from above appeared to
shudder, was the mysterious, little gray haired man, Malcomb MacQueen.
“Go back! Go back!” Ballard shouted these words. But the wind was against
him. The aged man was slightly deaf. Apparently he did not hear for he
walked straight on.
The three boys stood aghast, watching. Now he was ten feet from the solid
rock he had left, now twenty, now thirty.
“I—I’m going down there,” Bex muttered hoarsely. Next instant like a
miniature landslide, he went plunging down the perilous slope.
Cupping his hands, Ballard shouted once again:
“Go back! Mr. MacQueen! Go back!”
This time, his voice, sharpened with an edge of despair, carried far. The
man on the bridge paused. He looked up. Ballard heaved a sigh of relief.
“Surely now he will turn back,” he told himself.
But apparently he had not been understood for the old man merely waved a
hand, then went on, a step, two, three steps,—while the ancient, rusty
bridge shuddered and swayed more and more.
Then, when all hope seemed gone, a miracle appeared to have happened. Bex
who, mere seconds before, had stood beside the boys, appeared at the end
of the bridge beneath them.
“Mr. MacQueen!” he screamed, “go back! The bridge is not safe. Too much
weight. It will break. Go back! Go back!”
“It’s Sambo,” was the astonishing reply. “What could Uncle Mose do
without Sambo?” He took one more step.
“Mr. MacQueen go—” Bex did not finish for at that instant the thing
happened. Something like a pistol shot rang out, the breaking of one
cable. For ten terrible seconds, while the man clung to wires and the
mule hung trapped in midair, the other cable held. And then, with a
sickening swirl, the bridge went crashing down and over until it struck
the rocky wall below.
“Come—come on,” Ballard breathed hoarsely. “We got—gotta’ go down.”
Just how they went down that rocky wall, Johnny will never know. Now he
found himself hanging by his hands to a ledge feeling with his toes for a
foothold, now racing along a shelving bit of rock where a slip meant
disaster and now, gripping the root of a gnarled and twisted tree, he
fairly threw himself into the waiting arms of an evergreen below.
A short, brief, breath-taking struggle, it was. Bruised and scratched but
with no serious injuries, they reached the bottom at last.
To their vast surprise, as they neared the wreck of the bridge, some huge
creature reared himself on high, uttered a startling “he-haw-he-haw,” and
went clattering away over the dry bed of the ravine.
“It’s Sambo!” Johnny said in an awed whisper.
“You can’t kill a mule,” Ballard muttered. “He should have known that.”
He pointed at a crumpled heap of gray on the ground. That heap was
Malcomb MacQueen.
With aching heart, the mountain boy bent over him.
“He’s unconscious, but he’s breathing,” he said slowly. “We’ve got to get
him out of here. It’s less than a half mile to the end of the run. Then
there’s a meadow.”
“And an airplane,” Johnny replied hopefully. “Remember? That plane landed
there.”
“That’s right!” A look of hope came to Ballard’s face. “Do you suppose
he—but we’ll have to have some way to carry him.”
“Here!” Johnny’s strong arms were tearing away at a short section of the
broken suspension bridge. “Here I’ll tear this off. Break those wires.
There, there you are! Now. Just lift him up. Gently! Gently!”
The groans of the aged man, as he was moved, brought tears to Ballard’s
eyes.
Strangely enough, Johnny was thinking. “He made something out of nothing,
sold it and used the money to help others, took gold from the sky, you
might say. This man did that.” Little did he dream that his words “took
gold from the sky” were almost literally true.
But there was no time for wandering thoughts. There was need now for
strength, speed and wisdom. The bed of the dry stream over which they
must travel was boulder-strewn and rough.
Strong arms and willing hearts enabled them to accomplish the difficult
task. Just as the stranger in his airplane was warming up his motor for a
take-off, he saw two boys come out on the end of the meadow. They were
carrying something. He guessed it might be an injured person. They put
down their burden and waved frantically. Shutting off his motor, he
hurried toward them.
“What’s happened?” he demanded when he came racing up to them.
“The bridge! The—mule,” little Bexter stammered. “He—he fell.”
“You see,” Johnny explained more coherently. “The suspension bridge fell
when he was on it. We—we’re afraid he’s badly hurt.”
“Let’s look him over.” The aviator was young, brisk and business-like.
His slim fingers moved rapidly over the silent form. “Leg broken, that’s
sure,” he muttered. “Bump on the head, not too bad.
“We’ve got to get him to a doctor at once.” His voice took on a note of
command. “Where’s the nearest doctor?”
“At the Gap, fifteen miles away!” Ballard’s tone told his despair. “Wagon
road, all rocks. Take hours!”
“That’s out!” the aviator decided instantly. “Come on,” he said to
Johnny. “Lift him up. I’ll take this end, now! March!” He led the way
toward the airplane on the double-quick.
“I’ve got blankets. Make him a litter on the floor of my airplane cabin.
We’ll have him at a city hospital in short notice,” the aviator said.
“You’ll take him by air?” Ballard stared.
“Sure! Why not?”
“Tha—that,” Ballard replied huskily, “will be noble.”
“Now then,” the pilot said ten minutes later. “Who’s going along to look
after him? Two of you if possible.”
“I—I. How I’d like to!” Ballard was near to tears. “But he’d want me to
stay with the mill. It—it might be terribly important.”
“All right you other two!”
Little Bexter gulped. He turned first red then white. It was evident that
he had never ridden in a plane.
“I’ll go,” Johnny said quietly. “Be glad to.” An airplane was nothing new
to him.
“I—I’ll go,” little Bexter breathed. “Bal—Ballard,” he caught his breath
sharply, “you—you tell my folks I might not come back nev—never.”
“Oh come now, sonny!” the aviator exclaimed. “It’s not half as bad as
that. Tell his mother he’ll be home for breakfast. Hot cakes and
molasses. Hey, son?” He gave Bexter an assuring slap on the back.
Two minutes later they were in the air, all of them but Ballard. Skimming
along over the narrow meadow, they rose higher and higher until the whole
beautiful panorama of the Blue Ridge—Big Black Mountain, Little Black,
Pine Ridge, and all the rest, lay spread out beneath them.
Little Bexter drew in a long, deep, breath, then shouted in Johnny’s ear:
“I never dreamed it could be like this. I—”
He broke off. A pair of keen, gray eyes, were studying his face. Malcomb
MacQueen had apparently regained consciousness.
Johnny too saw those eyes and liked them. “Keen eyes,” he thought. “He
knows a great deal. Hope I can get to be his friend.” Then again came
that haunting question: “How could this man go down into a mysterious
space beneath a grist mill and by setting some sort of machinery in
motion, produce something very valuable out of nothing but air and water?
“Perhaps he will tell me,” he thought. “But at least, not now.” He saw
those gray eyes close, whether in unconsciousness or sleep, he could not
tell. Sleep under such unusual circumstances appeared impossible, but
this, he realized was a remarkable man.
It seemed to Johnny that the time consumed in that journey was remarkably
short. To his utter surprise, he found himself circling over the roofs
and chimneys of a sizeable city. Next moment, with a speed that was
startling, they were shooting downward for a landing.
“Qui—quick trip,” he said to the pilot a moment later.
“Been quicker if my new motor were complete!” was the mysterious pilot’s
strange reply.
But here were officers, doctors, an ambulance, all ordered in advance by
two-way airplane radio. The little gray haired man was lifted out
tenderly, then whisked away.
“You making a new kind of motor?” Johnny asked the pilot when everyone
had departed.
“Motor’s not as new as the fuel I’ll use,” was the reply.
“What kind of fuel?” Johnny ventured.
“You’d be surprised!” The pilot looked away. “More foot pounds of energy
for its weight than any yet discovered. Go around the world in non-stop
flight—perhaps.”
“Whew!” Johnny breathed.
“Say! I’m starved!” the pilot exclaimed. “Guess we’ve done all we can for
your friend, at least for the present. Want something to eat, you boys?”
Did they? Little Bexter grinned from ear to ear.
Early next morning they found themselves once more standing beside the
airplane. A boy about Johnny’s age had just arrived.
“I’m Donald Day, Malcomb MacQueen’s grandson,” he introduced himself. “I
want to thank you for looking after my grandfather,” he said to Johnny
and Bexter.
“How—how is he?” Little Bexter’s words stuck in his throat.
“He’s pretty badly busted up!” Donald Day wrinkled his brow. “But he’s
tough. He’s always lived right. The doctors say he will pull through but
it will take a long time. And during that time,” he squared his
shoulders, “during that time I’m to carry on his work.” He jingled a
bunch of keys.
“In—down there in that space beneath the mill?” Johnny breathed.
The other boy shot him a quick look. “Yes. Down there,” he replied
quietly.
A hundred questions were pressing in Johnny’s mind demanding an answer.
He asked none of them.
“All right boys,” said the pilot. “I promised to have this little fellow
home for breakfast.” He touched Bexter’s shoulder. “So guess we better
step on the gas.”
“Yes,” Johnny thought. “Same old gas. But what fuel could he have been
speaking of yesterday? A fresh mystery. I’m sure going to solve that one
too.”
Then, as the big man-made bird took to the air, he thought once more of
his promise to the coach. “Told him I’d find him a real half-back,” he
thought for the hundredth time. “Be strange if I found him right down
here in the mountains. But then, of course I won’t. Oh well, I’ll have a
day or two of fishing. After that I’ll go back on the hunt for a
half-back. Pray for luck, that’s what I’ll do.”