“Well,” said the driver, as he set his long-lashed whip into its socket, and gathered up his reins in his left hand, in order to afford him an opportunity to declaim more freely with his right, “you must know that I’ve been drivin’ on this line more than two years, and consequently I know every inch of the route like a book.  I must own, though, that I didn’t know quite as much at the time I speak of.  The driver whose place I took when I came on to the road, had been pretty badly used up in a scrimmage with the bandits about a week before, and I didn’t like the prospects, you may be sure; but as I was out of a job, I took this, and I made up my mind when I I commenced, never to put my head in the way of a robber’s bullet, if I could help it.”

“That’s the case with most of you, isn’t it?” said Manning, good-naturedly.

“What makes you think so?” inquired the driver, quizzically.

“Why, the ease and success with which stage coaches have usually been robbed,” was the reply.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he answered, good-humoredly, and not the least disturbed by Manning’s quiet reflection on the bravery of stage drivers in general.  “When a fellow has to manage four tolerably skittish horses with both hands full of leather, he haint much time to fool around huntin’ shootin’ irons, ’specially when he’s got to look down into the muzzle of a repeater which is likely to go off and hurt somebody.”

“Do you think these stage robbers, as a rule, are disposed to kill anybody?” asked Manning.

“Why, sir,” answered the driver, “they would just as soon kill a stage driver as eat their breakfast, and they know how to handle a rifle, too, let me tell you.”

“There’s something in that reasoning,” replied Manning, laughingly.  “But go on with your story.”

“Well,” continued the driver, “I had made several trips and had met with no trouble or accident, so I began to think the gang had gone away from these parts, and that there was no danger to be feared.  However, I still carried a brace of good revolvers in a handy place, just to make sure I was safe; though, Lord bless you, I knew I couldn’t get at them in time to do any good, if the robbers did attack us.

“Well, one morning—­it was a cold, raw day in April—­I left Billings with my coach full of people, most of whom were goin’ through to Helena, although I only drove as far as Bozeman, just as I do now.  I had nine passengers, all told, and among the number was an old ranchman named Kyle Barton, and his handsome daughter.  I tell you, she was a stunner; her hair was as black as a crow, and her bright black eyes sparkled like diamonds.  I knew ’em both pretty well, for the old man owned a ranch out near Bozeman, and was as fine a man as ever stood six feet in his boots.  The young woman was a fiery little beauty, and as hard to manage as a three-year-old colt.  The old man and his daughter had been on a trip to the East, and were now returning home again, after bein’ away several months.  Well, the young woman, as I have said, for all she was as pretty as a picture, had a devilish wicked look in her flashing black eyes, that made a fellow kind ’o wilt when she looked him square in the face.