notion that we are wide-awake, and on
guard yet. See any movement out there?"

"I--I am not sure," she answered doubtfully. "There is a black smudge
beyond that dead pony; lean forward here and you can see what I
mean--on the ground. I--I imagined it moved just then." She pointed
into the darkness. "It is the merest shadow, but seemed to wiggle
along, and then stop; it's still now."

Hamlin focussed his keen eyes on the spot indicated, shading them with
one hand.

"Slide back further on the seat," he whispered softly, "and let me in
next the window."

There was a moment's silence, the only sound the wind. The girl
gripped the back of the seat nervously with both hands, holding her
breath; the Sergeant, the outline of his face silhouetted against the
sky, stared motionless into the night without. Suddenly, not making a
sound, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

CHAPTER VIII

A WAY TO THE RIVER

She waited in agony as he sighted carefully, striving to gauge the
distance. It seemed an interminable time before his finger pressed the
trigger. Then came the report, a flash of flame, and the powder smoke
blown back in her face. Half-blinded by the discharge, she yet saw
that black smudge leap upright; again the Henry blazed, and the dim
figure went down. There was a cry--a mad yell of rage--in which
scattered voices joined; spits of fire cleaving the darkness, the
barking of guns of different calibre. A bit of flying lead tore
through the leather back of the coach with an odd rip; another struck
the casing of the door, sending the wooden splinters flying like
arrows. Hawk-eyed, Hamlin fired twice more, aiming at the sparks,
grimly certain that a responding howl from the left evidenced a hit.
Then, as quickly, all was still, intensely black once more. The
Sergeant drew back from the window, leaning his gun against the casing.

"That will hold them for a while," he said cheerfully. "Two less out
there, I reckon, and the others won't get careless again right away.
Now is our time; are you ready?"

There was no response, the stillness so profound he could hear the
faint ticking of the girl's watch. He reached out, almost alarmed, and
touched her dress.

"What is the trouble?" he questioned anxiously. "Didn't you hear me
speak?"

He waited breathless, but there was no movement, no sound, and his
hand, trembling, in spite of his iron nerve, groped its way upward.
She was lying back against t