The moon came out and shone high as Yuba Bill once more took the reins in his hands.  The wind, which instantly attacked them as they reached the level, seemed to make the driver’s theory plausible, and for half a mile the roadbed was swept clean, and frozen hard.  Further on a tongue of snow, extending from a boulder to the right, reached across their path to the height of two or three feet.  But Yuba Bill dashed through a part of it, and by skillful maneuvering circumvented the rest.  But even as the obstacle was passed, the coach dropped with an ominous lurch on one side, and the off fore wheel flew off in the darkness.  Bill threw the horses back on their haunches; but, before their momentum could be checked, the near hind wheel slipped away, the vehicle rocked violently, plunged backwards and forwards, and stopped.

Yuba Bill was on the road in an instant with his lantern.  Then followed an outbreak of profanity which I regret, for artistic purposes, exceeds that generous limit which a sympathizing public has already extended to me in the explication of character.  Let me state, therefore, that in a very few moments he succeeded in disparaging the characters of his employers, their male and female relatives, the coach builder, the station keeper, the road on which he travelled, and the travellers themselves, with occasional broad expletives addressed to himself and his own relatives.  For the spirit of this and a more cultivated poetry of expression, I beg to refer the temperate reader to the 3d chapter of Job.

The passengers knew Bill, and sat, conservative, patient, and expectant.  As yet the cause of the catastrophe was not known.  At last Thatcher’s voice came from the box seat: 

“What’s up, Bill?”

“Not a blank lynch pin in the whole blank coach,” was the answer.

There was a dead silence.  Yuba Bill executed a wild war dance of helpless rage.

“Blank the blank enchanted thing to blank!”

(I beg here to refer the fastidious and cultivated reader to the only adjective I have dared transcribe of this actual oath which I once had the honor of hearing.  He will I trust not fail to recognize the old classic daemon in this wild western objurgation.)

“Who did it?” asked Thatcher.

Yuba Bill did not reply, but dashed up again to the box, unlocked the “boot,” and screamed out: 

“The man that stole your portmantle,—­Wiles!”

Thatcher laughed: 

“Don’t worry about that, Bill.  A ‘biled’ shirt, an extra collar, and a few papers.  Nothing more.”

Yuba Bill slowly descended.  When he reached the ground, he plucked Thatcher aside by his coat sleeve: 

“Ye don’t mean to say ye had nothing in that bag ye was trying to get away with?”

“No,” said the laughing Thatcher frankly.

“And that Wiles warn’t one o’ them detectives?”

“Not to my knowledge, certainly.”