The entire field stretching to the river was clear to the view, the short, dry buffalo-grass offering no concealment.  To the right of the coach, some fifty feet away, was the only depression, a shallow gully leading down from the bluff, but this slight advantage was unavailable.  The sun had already dropped from view, and the gathering twilight distorted the figures, making them almost grotesque in their savagery.  Yet they could be clearly distinguished, stealing silently forward, guns in hand, spreading out in a wide half-circle, obedient to the gestures of Roman Nose, who, still mounted upon his pony, was traversing the river bank, his every motion outlined against the dull gleam of water behind him.  From the black depths of the coach the three men watched in almost breathless silence, gripping their weapons, fascinated, determined not to waste a shot.  Gonzales, under the strain, uttered a fierce Spanish curse, but Hamlin crushed his arm between iron fingers.

“Keep still, you fool!” he muttered, never glancing around.  “Let your gun talk!”

The assailants came creeping on, snakes rather than men, appearing less and less human in the increasing shadows.  Twice the Sergeant lifted his Henry, sighting along the brown barrel, lowering the weapon again in doubt of the distance.  He was conscious of exultation, of a swifter pulse of the heart, yet his nerves were like steel, his grip steady.  Only a dim fleeting memory of the girl, half hidden in the darkness behind, gave him uneasiness—­he could not turn and look into her eyes.  Roman Nose was advancing now at the centre of that creeping half circle, a hulking figure perched on his pony’s back, yet well out of rifle range.  He spread his hands apart, clasping a blanket, looking like a great bird flapping its wings, and the ground in front flamed, the red flare splitting the gray gloom.  The speeding bullets crashed through the leather of the coach, splintering the wood; the Mexican rolled to the floor, uttering one inhuman cry, and lay motionless; a great volume of black smoke wavered in the still air.

“Walt!  Wait until they get to their feet!” Hamlin cried eagerly.  “Ah! there they come—­now unlimber.”

He saw only those black, indistinct figures, leaping out of the smoke, converging on the coach, their naked arms uplifted, their voices mingling in savage yells.  Like lightning he worked his rifle, heart throbbing to the excitement, oblivious to all else; almost without realization he heard the deeper bellow of Moylan’s Winchester, the sharp bark of a revolver at his very ear.  Gonzales was all right, then!  Good!  He never thought of the girl, never saw her grip the pistol from the Mexican’s dead hand, and crawl white-faced, over his body, to that front seat.  All he really knew was that those devils were coming, leaping, crowding through the smoke wreathes; he saw them stumble, and rise again; he saw one leap into the air, and then crash face down; he saw them break,