Chapter II: 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.”