"Now, I don't feel that way in the least," was the laughing response,
and Harding sprang up to the box, seized the reins, cracked his whip
when he got the word, and was off.

The crowd gathered there cheered him, of course, but a generally sad
expression rested upon every face as they looked upon the brave young
miner who had taken his life in his hand to drive what was now called
the death-trap.

Having halted for the night at the way cabin, Harding pushed on the next
morning with the first glimmer of dawn, and reached the third relay at
noon.

There was then one more relay and the run into Last Chance, which in
good weather could readily be made before sunset. He passed the last
relay, and the stock-tender said, as he was about to start:

"Good-by, pard, and do you know I kinder feels as if yer was a dead man
already?"

"Don't you believe it, for I am worth a dozen dead men, old man," was
the laughing response, and Harding drove on, with the Dead Line rising
in his mind before him.

He drove more rapidly than was the schedule-time, and when he came into
the pass, with the Dead Line just ahead, he had half an hour to spare.

The horses pricked up their ears, as though they knew the doomed place
well, and the leaders gave a snort as they beheld a form ahead. It was a
man leaning against the cross erected in memory of Bud Benton.

That Harding also saw the form was certain, for his eyes were riveted
upon the spot. As he drew nearer, the man moved away from the cross and
advanced down into the trail.

Still Harding made no move to halt, to rush by, or appeared to take
notice of him. The man placed himself by the side of the trail, and
stood as still as a statue, after making a slight sign, as it appeared.

The answer of Harding to this sign was to shake his head.

On rolled the coach, and when it neared the silent form, without any
command to do so, Harding drew hard upon the reins, pressed his foot
heavily upon the brake, and brought the coach to a standstill, the
horses, which had before drawn it through the deadly dangers it had
passed at that spot, showing a restless dread and expectancy of the
cracking of revolvers.

But there was no weapon drawn either by the man on the side of the
trail, or by Harding, and neither seemed to dread the other.

The reason for this was that the one who had awaited the coming of the
coach at the Dead Line was none other than old Huckleberry.

CHAPTER XVII.

A SE