“Keep off to the left,” shouted the guide.  “We’re almost there.  Down into that coulee y’u go.  There ain’t another crossin’ this side o’ three mile, an’ we ain’t got time to go so far out o’ our way.”

“Say, we’re liable to turn over down there.  Better get the gal out, an’ let her walk down.  I can get safe up the other side.”

“All right.  Stop ’er.”

The stage stopped, and the cessation of the swaying, swinging motion was a blessed relief to the tortured girl.

“Come on out,” said the guide, as he threw the door open.  “We’ll have to ask you to walk to the bottom o’ this coulee, if y’u don’t want to be scrambled about on the bottom o’ the coach.”

Stella was glad to get out, but when her feet were on the ground she swayed and staggered like a drunken person from sheer sickness and weakness.

Beside her was her guide on his horse, and she was compelled to lean against it for a moment until she recovered herself.

The stage had gone lumbering and swaying down the bank of the coulee, and before it reached the bottom it turned on its side.

The driver leaped in safety to the ground, and the guide went scrambling down the bank to his assistance.

The mules were plunging and kicking, and threatened to break their harness to pieces.

Stella was mutely thankful that she had not been in the stage when it went over, as she sat down on a rock to rest and watch the efforts of the swearing and angry men to right the stage.

Once she thought of trying to escape while the men were engrossed in their work, and she arose eagerly.

But when she got to her feet she realized the impossibility of such a thing, for she almost fell.  Then she sank down again, and resigned herself to her fate.

But soon the stage was put back on its wheels again, and the guide called to her to come down.

This was a slow and painful operation, during which the driver swore impatiently at the delay.  But she accomplished it, and crawled into the stage and sank down on the pallet which had been made for her with the seat cushions.

Now they were off again, faster than before, and with correspondingly more discomfort to Stella.  Oh, if the journey would only end, she thought.

“Here we are,” she heard the guide’s voice in a shout.

The stage stopped, and Stella heard a rush of feet.

“Got her?” some one demanded gruffly.

“Yep, but she’s all in,” replied the guide.  “Her forehead was creased by a bullet, an’ the trip has about finished her.”

“Can’t help that.  Get her out.  We’ve got to be moving.  The soldiers are out to-night.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Injuns.”.

“Uprisin’?”

“Not yet, but the agent over to Fort Sill has a tip that they are putting on paint.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Somethin’ about beef issue.  The last cows issued to the Injuns were no good, an’ the Injuns made a kick, an’ the agent told them to go to the deuce.  Old Flatnose an’ his son Moonface, the Apache chiefs, have always been bad actors, an’ now they are tryin’ to scare up a muss.”