“What the devil—­” he began angrily, and then the careening coach stopped as suddenly as though it had struck the bank, again tearing loose their handhold on the seats and flinging them headlong.  They heard the creaking clamp of the brakes, the dancing of frightened horses, a perfect volley of oaths, the crunch of feet as men leaped from the top to the ground; then, all at once, the stage lurched forward, swerving sharply to the left, and struck out across the flat directly toward the bluff.

Hamlin struggled to the nearest window, and, grasping the sill to hold himself upright, leaned out.  He caught a momentary glimpse of two men riding swiftly up the trail; the box above was empty, the wheelers alone remained in harness, and they were running uncontrolled.

“By God!” he muttered.  “Those two damn cowards have cut loose and left us!”

Even as the unrestrained words leaped from his lips, he realized the only hope—­the reins still dangled, caught securely in the brake lever.  Inch by inch, foot by foot, he wiggled out; Moylan, comprehending, caught his legs, holding him steady against the mad pitching.  His fingers gripped the iron top rail, and, exerting all his strength, he slowly pulled his body up, until he fell forward into the driver’s seat.  Swift as he had been, the action was not quickly enough conceived to avert disaster.  He had the reins in his grip when the swinging pole struck the steep side of the bluff, snapping off with a sharp crack, and flinging down the frightened animals, the wheels, crashing against them, as the coach came to a sudden halt.  Hamlin hung on grimly, flung forward to the footrail by the force of the shock, his body bruised and aching.  One horse lay motionless, head under, apparently instantly killed; his mate struggled to his feet, tore frantically loose from the traces, and went flying madly down the slope, the broken harness dangling at its heels.  The Sergeant sat up and stared about, sweeping the blood from a slight gash out of his eyes.  Then he came to himself with a gasp—­understanding instantly what it all meant, why those men had cut loose the horses and ridden away, why the wheelers had plunged forward in that mad run-away race—­between the bluffs and the river a swarm of Indians were lashing their ponies, spreading out like the sticks of a fan.

CHAPTER V

THE DEFENCE OF THE STAGE

There were times when Hamlin’s mental processes seemed slow, almost sluggish, but this was never true in moments of emergency and peril.  Then he became swift, impetuous, seemingly borne forward by some inspiring instinct.  It was for such experiences as this that he remained in the service—­his whole nature responding almost joyously to the bugle-call of action, of imminent danger, his nerves steadying into rock.  These were the characteristics which had won him his chevrons in the unrewarded service of the frontier, and, when scarcely more than a boy, had put a captain’s bars on the gray collar of his Confederate uniform.