, whereat they did not
close in, but swerved and galloped parallel, some fifty paces distant.
Driscoll struggled alone against the heaving sea about him. But no
cut-throat of that pirate mass so much as drew a knife. By force of
brawn, he wedged his way toward the coach, reached it, leaned forward,
and caught up the curtain. And what he saw was a poke bonnet. The bonnet
was a bower of lace and roses, held by a filmy saucy knot under a lady's
chin. He saw a face framed within, of a skin creamy white, of lips
blood-red, of hair like copper, and he saw a pair of eyes. They were
gray eyes, and as they opened suddenly and wider upon him whom she
thought must be her captor, the lady started violently, her cheeks
aflame. But at once the eyes snapped as in mockery, and her lips moved.

"Monsieur permits himself----" she began, but no one heard except her
terrified companion within the coach. Driscoll had already dropped the
curtain as a thing that burned, and was raging on again with the
turbulent stream. He got to the leader of the band, and jerked the
fellow's bridle. He raised his voice, and louder than the pounding of
hoofs he cursed in wrathful disgust.

"Dam' you Rod, this here's getting monotonous!"

The man swung in his saddle. His eyes were black-browed and savage. He
was Rodrigo Galan, the terrible Don Rodrigo. But shabby, how very shabby
he looked for the thief of million dollar convoys! Yet that bonanza coup
of the bullion train had happened two years ago. Since then the outlaw
had visited the capital. Boldly, audaciously, he had gone as a rich
hacendado, and after the manner of rich hacendados he had "seen the
City." Mozos with gorged canvas bags on their shoulders had followed his
stately stride into the gambling casinos. He had played with regal
nerve, and on the last occasion, had flung the emptied sacks away as
nonchalantly as on the first. Only, the last time, he had felt remorse
that the "bank" had profited instead of Tiburcio. In that matter of the
bullion convoy he had not treated Don Tiburcio as one caballero should
another.

Their horses--Rodrigo's and Driscoll's--were racing by bounds shoulder
to shoulder. This endured for possibly the space of a second. Then
Demijohn felt his rein tighten, and he took more time. Next his bit
suddenly pinched, and down the old fellow came upon his front feet
together, firmly planted, and sank to his haunches. Driscoll still held
Rodrigo's bridle, and Rodrigo and hors