e?" "You bet--right away!"

That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk.
But we knew that something--something remarkable had happened. Jim was
visibly excited; he let go the telephone, and, turning around, full over
against us, he said, "By ----, boys! the stage hez been robbed!"

A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss Mountain country! Every man leapt
to his feet and broke for the door, his right hand thrust instinctively
back toward his hip pocket. There was blood in every eye.

Hank Eaves' broncho was tied in front of Casey's.

"Tell me where to go," says Hank, "and I 'll git thar in a minnit. I 'm
fixed."

"No, Hank," says Jim Woppit, commanding like, "_I 'll_ go. I 'm city
marshal, an' it's my place to go--I 'm the repersentive of law an' order
an' I 'll enforce 'em--damn me ef I don't!"

"That's bizness--Jim's head 's level!" cried Barber Sam.

"Let Jim have the broncho," the rest of us counselled, and Hank had to
give in, though he hated to, for he was spoiling for trouble--cussedest
fellow for fighting you ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the spunky
little broncho and was off like a flash.

"Come on, boys," he called back to us; "come on, ez fast ez you kin to
the glen!"

Of course we could n't anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of
sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away--just a trifle up along the
main road beyond the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the excitement of the
moment and by the whooping of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a poet
he always opined) that some evil might have befallen his cherished Miss
Woppit--incited by these influences we made all haste. But Miss Woppit
was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room
lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit's slender figure flitting to and
fro behind the white curtain. She was frightened almost to death, poor
girl!

It appeared from the story of Steve Barclay, the stage-driver, that along
about eight o'clock the stage reached the glen--a darkish, dismal spot,
and the horses, tired and sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short
stretch of rising ground. There were seven people in the stage: Mr.
Mills, superintendent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling man (or
drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners
returning from a round-up at Denver. Steve Barclay was the only person
outside. As the stage reached the summit of the litt