“But — Sing,” protested Jo, stifling any sort of smile.

“Him no good!  No got place!  Me pay one-dollar-hop him stop one month, Chinee house.  He no pay.  Me makem work.”

“Yes, but — what is that?  Those are shots on the stage road over the hill!  Oh, it must be another holdup!  And Rand is shotgun messenger on the stage today.  Hark!  Hear the horses running!  They’re coming — fast.  They’re trying to make the town!”

“Ketchem, more horse run behind,” answered Sing, listening intently, his slanting eyes glittering.

“Sing, you go and see what — "

“Can do!  You get that boy, make ’em wash, alle same.  He no good!  You look see?” Joe turned to spy the frightened deputy washerman wriggling under the verandah.  “Bime-by I kill ’um,” remarked Sing, composedly.  “No got time now.  Missie Jo, wagon come, maybeso better you stop house-o.”

Six horses topped the long hill, pulling the huge rockaway stage.  They were coming at full speed, and the near wheeler was dripping with blood.  A dead man hung over the high dashboard, where his feet had caught when he fell.

Leaning far out over the team was a young man holding the reins in one hand, while he lashed the shot-crazed horses to their last ounce of speed with the fifteen-foot whip.  His sawed-off shotgun lay on the seat beside him.  It was Rand!

“Oh, thank God!” moaned Joe, but in another moment, “Poor old Salt Peter!  They must have killed him when he wouldn’t stop.  Sing — " but Hop Sing had vanished, leaving only his white apron across the wash bench.

As the stage thundered around the turn at the end of the main street, the wounded horse threw up his head, coughed bloody spume over the pointers (the second pair), and fell.  Men were already scrambling onto their horses, and loping in from all directions.  Rand cut out a buckskin leader, mounted, and dashed frantically back up the road followed by a dozen horsemen.

“Rand, who was it?”

“I don’t know, exactly.  Thought I saw Digger Dan — " They were over the hill, and Jo heard no more.

Hop Sing did not turn up for supper, but his tall substitute did fairly well, and Jo did not worry.  Some time after dark, a weary Rand appeared.

“Well, Miss Jo, we got Digger Dan.  At least we thought it was, but he won’t say a word except that he wants to see you.  I’ve come to escort you over to the jail.  Will you trust yourself to me that far?”

“That far, yes,” archly, “’tis but a short space.”  Not for worlds would she have him guess her anxiety of the afternoon.

“I wish that ’twere for always.”

“What can Digger Dan want of me,” she evaded, thankful for the darkness which hid her blushes.  “Rand, hear the wolves howling!”

“They are only coyotes, dear — Miss Joe, and afraid to venture into town except to the chicken roosts.”

“Why, it’s Hop Sing!” exclaimed Jo, upon first sight of the prisoner.  “They’ve cut off half his queue and braided his hair in two pig tails, and put different clothes on him, and he does look like an Indian.  How very extraordinary!”