ing on foot for the river bank, and a squad of
riders circling beyond the trail. Hamlin swept the mingled sweat and
blood out of his eyes, smiled grimly, and glanced back into the coach,
instinctively slipping fresh cartridges into his hot rifle.

"That's one time those fellows ran into a hornet's nest," he commented
quietly, all trace of excitement vanished. "Better load up, boys, for
we 're not through yet--they 'll only be more careful next time.
Anybody hurt?"

"Somethin' creased my back," replied Moylan, complainingly, and trying
vainly to put a hand on the spot. "Felt like a streak o' fire." The
Sergeant reached across, fingering the torn shirt curiously.

"Seared the flesh, pardner, but no blood worth mentioning. They 've
got some heavy artillery out there from the sound--old army muskets
likely. It is our repeating rifles that will win out--those red devils
don't understand them yet."

"Senor, you tink we win out den?" and Gonzales peered up blinking into
the other's face. "Sacre! dey vil fight deeferent de nex' time. Ze
Americaine muskeet, eet carry so far--ess eet not so?"

Hamlin patted his brown barrel affectionately as if it were an old
friend, and smiled across into the questioning eyes of the girl.

"I 'm willing to back this weapon against the best of them for
distance," he replied easily, "and it's accurate besides. How about
it, Moylan?"

"I 'd about as soon be in front as behind one of them cannon," answered
the sutler soberly. "I toted one four years. But say, pardner, what's
yer name? Yer a cavalryman, ain't yer?"

"Sergeant--forgot I was n't properly introduced," and he bent his head
slightly, glancing again toward the girl. "Hamlin is the rest of it."

"'Brick' Hamlin?"

"Sometimes--delicate reference to my hair, miss," and he took off his
hat, his gray eyes laughing. "Born that way, but does n't seem to
interfere with me much, since I was a kid. You 've heard of me then,
Moylan? So has our little friend, Gonzales, here."

The sober-faced sutler merely nodded, evidently in no mood for
pleasantry.

"Oh, ye're all right," he said finally. "I've heard 'em say you was a
fighter down round Santa Fe, an' I know it myself now. But what the
hell are we goin' to do? This yere stagecoach ain't much of a fort to
keep off a bunch o' redskins once they git their mad up. Them musket
bullets go through like the sides was paper, an' I reckon we ain't got
no over-supply o' ammuni