“Yas—­shutin’-irons—­rewolvers—­patent perforatin’ masheens.”

“Yes, we are armed, if that is what you mean.”

On dashed the stage through the echoing canyon—­on plunged the snorting horses, excited to greater efforts by the frequent application of the cracking lash.  The pines grew thicker, and the moonlight less often darted its rays down athwart the road.

“Hey!” yelled a rough voice from within the stage “w’at d’ye drive so fast fer?  Ye’ve jonced the senses clean out uv a score o’ us.”

“Go to blazes!” shouts back Jehu, giving an extra crack to his whip.  “Who’n the name o’ John Rodgers ar’ drivin’ this omnybust, pilgrim?—­you or I?”

“You’ll floor a hoss ef ye don’ mind sharp!”

“Who’n thunder wants ye to pay fer et, ef I do?” rings back, tauntingly.  “Reckon w’en Bill McGucken can’t drive ther thru-ter-Deadwood stage as gude as ther average, he’ll suspend bizness, or hire you ter steer to his place.”

On, on rumbles the stage, down through a lower grade of the canyon, where no moonlight penetrates, and all is of Stygian darkness.

The two passengers on top of the stage shiver with dread, and even old Bill McGucken peers around him, a trifle suspiciously.

It is a wild spot, with the mountains rising on each side of the road to a stupendous hight, the towering pines moaning their sad, eternal requiem; the roar of the great wheels over the hardpan bottom; the snorting of the fractious lead-horses; the curses and the cracking of Jehu’s whip; the ring of iron-shod hoofs—­it is a place and moment conducive to fear, mute wonder, admiration.

“Halt!”

High above all other sounds now rings this cry, borne toward the advancing stage from the impenetrable space of gloom ahead, brought down in clear commanding tone whereto there is neither fear nor hesitation.

That one word has marvelous effect.  It brings a gripe of iron into the hands of Jehu, and he jerks his snorting steeds back upon their haunches; it is instrumental in stopping the stage. (Who ever knew a Black Hills driver to offer to press on when challenged to halt to a wild dismal place?)

It sends a thrill of lonely horror through the vein of those to whose ears the cry is borne; it causes hands to fly to the butts of weapons, and hearts to beat faster.

“Halt!” Again the cry rings forth, reverberating in a hundred dissimilar echoes up the rugged mountain side.

The horses quiet down:  Jehu sits like a carved statue on his box; the silence becomes painful to those within the stage—­those who are trembling in a fever of excitement, and peering from the open windows with revolvers cocked for instant use.

The moon suddenly thrusts her golden head over the pinnacle of a hoary peak a thousand feet above and lights up the gorge with a ghastly distinctness that enables the watchers to behold a black horseman blocking the path a few rods ahead.