Part 5 (1/2)

Then he thought of Moylan, wondering why the man did not move, or speak. That was not like Moylan. He bent forward, half afraid in the stillness, endeavoring to discover s.p.a.ce on the floor for both his feet. He could perceive now a distant star showing clear through the ragged opening jabbed in the back of the coach, but no outline of the sutler's burly shoulders.

”Moylan!” he called, hardly above a whisper. ”What is the trouble?

Have you been hit, man?”

There was no answer, no responding sound, and he stood up, reaching kindly over across the seat. Then he knew, and felt a shudder run through him from head to foot. Bent double over the iron back of the middle seat, with hands still gripping his hot rifle, the man hung, limp and lifeless. Almost without realizing the act, Hamlin lifted the heavy body, laid it down upon the cus.h.i.+on, and unclasped the dead fingers gripping the Winchester stock.

”Every shot gone,” he whispered to himself dazedly, ”every shot gone!

Ain't that h.e.l.l!”

Then it came to him in a sudden flash of intelligence--he was alone; alone except for the girl. They were out there yet, skulking in the night, planning revenge, those savage foemen--Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Ogallas. They had been beaten back, defeated, smitten with death, but they were Indians still. They would come back for the bodies of their slain, and then--what? They could not know who were living, who dead, in the coach; yet must have discovered long since that it had only contained three defenders. They would guess that ammunition would be limited. His knowledge of the fighting tactics of the Plains tribes gave clear vision of what would probably occur. They would wait, scattered out in a wide circle from bluff to bluff, lying snake-like in the gra.s.s. Some of the bolder might creep in to drag away the bodies of dead warriors, risking a chance shot, but there would be no open attack in the dark. That would be averse to all Indian strategy, all precedent. Even now the mournful wailing had ceased; Roman Nose had rallied his warriors, instilled into them his own unconquerable savagery, and set them on watch. With the first gray dawn they would come again, leaping to the coach's wheels, yelling, triumphant, mad with new ferocity--and he was alone, except for the girl.

And where was she? He felt for her on the floor, but only touched the Mexican's feet. He had to lean across the seat where Moylan's body lay, shrouded in darkness, before his groping fingers came in contact with the skirt of her dress. She was on the front seat, close to the window; against the lightness of the outer sky, her head seemed lying upon the wooden frame. She did not move, he could not even tell that she breathed, and for an instant his dry lips failed him utterly, his blood seemed to stop. Good G.o.d! Had she been killed also? How, in Heaven's name, did she ever get there? Then suddenly she lifted her head slightly, brus.h.i.+ng back her hair with one arm; the faint starlight gleamed on a short steel barrel. The Sergeant expelled his breath swiftly, wetting his dry lips.

”Are you hurt?” he questioned anxiously. ”Lord, but you gave me a scare!”

She seemed to hear his voice, yet scarcely to understand, like one aroused suddenly from sleep.

”What! you spoke--then--then--there are others? I--I am not here all alone?”

”Not if you count me,” he said, a trace of recklessness in the answer.

”I have n't even a scratch so far as I know. Did they touch you?”

”No; that is, I am not quite sure; it--it was all so horrible I cannot remember. Who are you? Are you the--the soldier?”

”Yes--I 'm Hamlin. Would you mind telling me how you ever got over there?”

She straightened up, seemed to notice the heavy revolver in her fingers, and let it fall to the floor.

”Oh, it is like a dream--an awful dream. I could n't help myself.

When the Mexican rolled off on to the floor, I knew he was dead, and--and there was his revolver held right out to me in his hand.

Before I realized I had it, and was up here--I--I killed one--he--he fell in the wheel; I--I can never forget that!”

”Don't try,” broke in Hamlin earnestly. ”You 're all right,” he added, admiration in his voice. ”And so it was you there with the small gun.

I heard it bark, but never knew Gonzales was. .h.i.t. When did it happen?”

”When--when they fired first. It--it was all smoke out there when I got to the window; they--they looked like--like wild beasts, and it did n't seem to me I was myself at all.”

The man laughed lightly.

”You did the right thing, that 's all,” he consoled, anxious to control her excitement. ”Now you and I must decide what to do next--we are all alone.”

”Alone! Has Mr. Moylan been hit also?”

”Yes,” he answered, feeling it was better to tell her frankly. ”He was shot, and is beyond our help. But come,” and he reached over and took her hand, ”you must not give up now.”

She offered no resistance, but sat motionless, her face turned away.

Yet she knew she trembled from head to foot, the reaction mastering her. A red tongue of flame seemed to slit the outside blackness; there was a single sharp report, echoing back from the bluff, but no sound of the striking bullet. Just an instant he caught a glimpse of her face, as she drew back, startled.