he protection of the northern bluffs, or
else skirting the edge of the water. Night or day the route was easily
followed, and, in other years, the traveller was seldom for long out of
sight of toiling wagons. Now scarcely a wheel turned in all that
lonely distance.

The west-bound stage left the station at Deer Creek at four o'clock in
the afternoon with no intimation of danger ahead. Its occupants had
eaten dinner in company with those of the east-bound coach, eighteen
miles down the river at Canon Bluff, and the in-coming driver had
reported an open road, and no unusual trouble. No Indian signs had
been observed, not even signal fires during the night, and the
conductor, who had come straight from Santa Fe, reported that troops
from Fort Union had driven the only known bunch of raiders back from
the neighborhood of the trail, and had them already safely corralled In
the mountains. This report, seemingly authentic and official, served
to relax the nerves, and the west-bound driver sang to himself as he
guided the four horses forward, while the conductor, a sawed-off gun
planted between his knees, nodded drowsily. Inside there were but
three passengers, jerking back and forth, as the wheels struck the deep
ruts of the trail, occasionally exchanging a word or two, but usually
staring gloomily forth at the monotonous scene. Miss McDonald and
Moylan occupied the back seat, some baggage wedged tightly between to
keep them more secure on the slippery cushion, while facing them, and
clinging to his support with both hands, was a pock-marked Mexican,
with rather villainous face and ornate dress, and excessively polite
manners. He had joined the little party at Dodge, smiling happily at
sight of Miss Molly's face when she unveiled, although his small
knowledge of English prevented any extended effort at conversation.
Moylan, however, after careful scrutiny, engaged him shortly in
Spanish, and later explained to the girl, in low tones, that the man
was a Santa Fe gambler known as Gonzales, with a reputation to be
hinted at but not openly discussed.

They were some six miles to the west of Deer Creek, the horses still
moving with spirit, the driver's foot on the brake, when the stage took
a sudden plunge down a sloping bank where the valley perceptibly
narrowed. To the left, beyond a flat expanse of brown, sun-scorched
grass, flowed the widely-spreading waters of the Arkansas, barely
covering the treacherous sandy bott