circling to right and left, crouching as they ran.  Two reached the stage—­only two!  One pitched forward, a revolver bullet between his eyes, his head wedged in the spokes of the wheel; the other Hamlin struck with emptied rifle-barrel as his red hand gripped the door, sending him sprawling back into the dirt.  It was all the work of a minute, an awful minute, intense, breathless—­then silence, the smoke drifting away, the dark night hiding the skulking runners.

CHAPTER VI

THE CONDITION IN THE COACH

Mechanically—­scarcely conscious of the action—­the Sergeant slipped fresh cartridges into the hot rifle chamber, swept the tumbled hair out of his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and stared into the night.  He could hardly comprehend yet that the affair was ended, the second attack repulsed.  It was like a delirium of fever; he almost expected to see those motionless bodies outstretched on the grass spring up, yelling defiance.  Then he gripped himself firmly, realizing the truth—­it was over with for the present; away off there in the haze obscuring the river bank those indistinct black smudges were fleeing savages, their voices wailing through the night.  Just in front, formless, huddled where they had fallen, were the bodies of dead and dying, smitten ponies and half-naked men.  He drew a deep breath through clinched teeth, endeavoring to distinguish his comrades.

The interior of the coach was black, and soundless, except for some one’s swift, excited breathing.  As he extended his cramped leg to the floor he touched a motionless body.  Not until then had he realized the possibility of death also within.  He felt downward with one hand, his nerves suddenly throbbing, and his finger touched a cold face—­the Mexican.  It must have been that last volley, for he could distinctly recall the sharp bark of Gonzales’ revolver between his own shots.

“The little devil,” he muttered soberly.  “It was a squarer death than he deserved.  He was a game little cock.”

Then he thought of Moylan, wondering why the man did not move, or speak.  That was not like Moylan.  He bent forward, half afraid in the stillness, endeavoring to discover space on the floor for both his feet.  He could perceive now a distant star showing clear through the ragged opening jabbed in the back of the coach, but no outline of the sutler’s burly shoulders.

“Moylan!” he called, hardly above a whisper.  “What is the trouble?  Have you been hit, man?”

There was no answer, no responding sound, and he stood up, reaching kindly over across the seat.  Then he knew, and felt a shudder run through him from head to foot.  Bent double over the iron back of the middle seat, with hands still gripping his hot rifle, the man hung, limp and lifeless.  Almost without realizing the act, Hamlin lifted the heavy body, laid it down upon the cushion, and unclasped the dead fingers gripping the Winchester stock.