ne of her voice, the clinging touch of her hand,
sent the blood pumping through his veins. Something besides duty
inspired him; he was no longer merely a soldier, but had suddenly
become transformed into a man. Years of repression, of iron
discipline, were blotted out, and he became even as his birthright made
him. "Molly McDonald," "Molly McDonald," he whispered the name
unconsciously to himself. Then his eyes caught the distant flicker of
Indian fire, and his teeth locked savagely.

There was something else to do besides dream. Because the girl had
spoken pleasantly was no reason why he should act the fool. Angry at
himself, he gripped his faculties, and faced the situation, aroused,
intent. He must save himself--and _her_! But how? What plan promised
any possibility of success? He had their surroundings in a map before
his eyes. His training had taught him to note and remember what others
would as naturally neglect. He was a soldier of experience, a
plainsman by long training, and even in the fierceness of the Indians'
attack on the stage his quick glance had completely visualized their
surroundings. He had not appreciated this at the time, but now the
topography of the immediate region was unrolled before him in detail;
yard by yard it reappeared as though photographed. He saw the widely
rutted trail, rounding the bluff at the right a hundred yards away,
curving sharply down the slope and then disappearing over the low hill
to the left, a slight stream trickling along its base. Below, the
short buffalo-grass, sunburned and brittle, ran to the sandy edge of
the river, which flowed silently in a broad, shallow, yellow flood
beneath the star gleam. Under the protection of that bank, but
somewhat to the left, where a handful of stunted cottonwood trees had
found precarious foothold in the sand, gleamed the solitary Indian
fire. About its embers, no doubt, squatted the chiefs and older
warriors, feasting and taking council, while the younger bucks lay,
rifles in hand, along the night-enshrouded slope, their cruel, vengeful
eyes seeking to distinguish the outlines of the coach against the black
curtain of the bluff.

This had proven thus far their salvation--that steep uplift of earth
against which the stage had crashed in its mad dash--for its
precipitant front had compelled the savages to attack from one
direction only, a slight overhang, not unlike a roof, making it
impossible even to shoot down from