The road is no macadamized way: it is simply a track that, in many parts, is barely visible except to practised eyes. Further on, where we pass through tracts of forest, the axe has cleared a broad path; and down some steep declivities there has been a mild attempt at a cutting. Where we come upon streams of any size or depth, light wooden bridges have been built; and fascines have made some boggy parts fordable in wet weather. Such is our road, and along it we proceed at a hand-gallop for the most part. The jolting may be imagined, it cannot be described; for the four wheels are never by any chance on the same level at one and the same time.
When we have proceeded eight or nine miles, Dandy Jack seems to be preparing himself for some exciting incident. Yankee Bill gallops alongside, exchanging a mysterious conversation in shouts with him.
"The rest of the planking's sure to be gone by this time," continues the cavalier.
"Then I reckon we'll jump it. Ford's two miles round at least, and we're late now."
Our dandy charioteer glances round on his passengers, and remarks--
"Hold on tight, boys; and, if we spill, spring clear for a soft place."
So saying, he plants his feet firmly out, takes a better grip of the reins, and crams his hat well on to his head. We ignorant new-chums sit perturbed, for we don't know what is coming, only we do not admire the grim determination of our driver's mouth, or the devilry flashing from his eyes. The rest of the passengers say nothing. They know Dandy Jack, and are philosophically resigned to their fate.
And now we plunge down the side of a gully, steep and wooded, with a brawling torrent pouring along its bottom. The road runs obliquely down the incline, and this descent we proceed to accomplish at a furious gallop, Dandy Jack shouting and encouraging his horses; his mate riding beside them, and flogging them to harder exertions. Then we see what is before us.
Right at the bottom of the steep road is a bridge across the creek; or, at least, what was once a bridge, for a freshet or something seems to have torn it partially up. Originally built by throwing tree-trunks across from bank to bank, and covering these with planking, what we now see seems little more than a bare skeleton; for nearly all the planking is gone, and only the rough bare logs remain--and of these several are displaced, so that uncomfortable-looking gaps appear. Some feet below the level of this ruined bridge a regular cataract is flowing. Across the frail scaffolding--you can call it no more--that spans the torrent, it is clearly Dandy Jack's intention to hurl the coach, trusting to the impetus to get it over. We shut our eyes in utter despair of a safe issue, and hold on to our seats with the clutch of drowning men. It is all that we can do.