ambush, must have been a terribly
efficient death-trap when the Concord stage came rumbling and rattling
westward into it on that blazing afternoon.

There were six passengers in the coach, all of them old-timers in the
West. And they were known as the Free Thompson party, from the name of
the leader. Every one of these men was armed with a late model rifle
and was taking full advantage of the company's rule which allowed the
carrying of as much ammunition as one pleased. They had several
thousand rounds of cartridges.

Such a seasoned company as this was not likely to go into a place like
Stein's Pass without taking a look or two ahead; and six hundred
Apaches were certain to offer some evidence of their presence to keen
eyes. Which probably explains why the horses were not killed at once.
For they were not. The driver was able to get the coach to the summit
of a low bare knoll a little way off the road. The Free Thompson party
made their stand on that hilltop.

They were cool men, uncursed by the fear of death, the sort who could
roll a cigarette or bite a mouthful from a plug of chewing-tobacco
between shots and enjoy the smoke or the cud; the sort who could look
upon the advance of overwhelming odds and coolly estimate the number
of yards which lay between.

These things are known of them and it is known that the place where
they made their stand was far from water, a bare hilltop under a
flaming sun, and round about them a ring of yelling Apaches.

There were a few rocks affording a semblance of cover. You can picture
those seven men, with their weather-beaten faces, their old-fashioned
slouching wide-rimmed hats, and their breeches tucked into their
boot-tops. You can see them lying behind those boulders with their
leathern cheeks pressed close to their rifle-stocks, their narrowed
eyes peering along the lined sights; and then, as time went on,
crouching behind the bodies of their slain horses.

And you can picture the turbaned Apaches with their frowzy hair and
the ugly smears of paint across their grinning faces. You can see them
creeping on their bellies through the clumps of coarse bear-grass,
gliding like bronze snakes among the rocks, slowly enough--the Apache
never liked the music of a rifle-bullet--but coming closer every hour.
Every gully and rock and clump of prickly pear for a radius of a
half-mile about that knoll sheltered its portion of the venomous brown
swarm.

Night followed day; hot mor