“It’s serious ‘nough, I reckon, an’ I certainly wish I wus safe through to Fort Marcy, but I don’t know no reason now why you could n’t finish up your trip all right.  I wus out to the fort last evenin’ gettin’ the latest news, an’ thar hasn’t been no trouble to speak of east of old Bent’s Fort.  Between thar and Union, thar’s a bunch o’ Mescalo Apaches raisin’ thunder.  One lot got as far as the Caches, an’ burned a wagon train, but were run back into the mount’ns.  Troops are out along both sides the Valley, an’ thar ain’t been no stage held up, nor station attacked along the Arkansas.  I reckon yer pa ’ll have an escort waitin’ at the crossin’?”

“Of course he will; what I am most afraid of is that I might miss him or his messenger on the route.”

“Not likely; there’s only two stages a week each way, an’ they have regular meeting points.”

She sat quiet, eyes lowered to the table, thinking.  She liked the man, and trusted him; he seemed kindly deferential.  Finally she looked up.

“When do you go?”

“To-day.  I was goin’ to wait ’bout yere a week longer, but am gitting skeered they might quit runnin’ their coaches.  To tell the truth, miss, it looks some to me like thar wus a big Injun war comin’, and I ’d like ter git home whar I belong afore it breaks loose.”

“Will—­will you take me with you?”

He moistened his lips, his hands clasping and unclasping on the table.

“Sure, if yer bound ter go.  I ‘ll do the best I kin fer yer, an’ I reckon ther sooner yer start the better chance ye ‘ll have o’ gittin’ through safe.”  He hesitated.  “If we should git bad news at Dodge, is there anybody thar, at the fort, you could stop with?”

“Colonel Carver.”

“He ‘s not thar now; been transferred to Wallace, but, I reckon, any o’ those army people would look after yer.  Ye ’ve really made up yer mind to try it, then?”

“Yes, yes; I positively cannot stay here.  I shall go as far as Dodge at least.  If—­if we are going to travel together, I ought to know your name.”

“Sure yer had,” with a laugh.  “I fergot all ’bout that—­it’s Moylan, miss; William Moylan; ‘Sutler Bill’ they call me mostly, west o’ the river.  Let’s go out an’ see ’bout thet stage.”

As he rounded the table, Molly rose to her feet, and held out her hand.

“I am so glad I spoke to you, Mr. Moylan,” she said simply.  “I am not at all afraid now.  If you will wait until I get my hat, I ’ll be down in a minute.”

“Sutler Bill” stood in the narrow hall watching her run swiftly upstairs, twirling his hat in his hands, his good-natured face flushed.  Once he glanced in the direction of the bar-room, wiping his lips with his cuff, and his feet shuffled.  But he resisted the temptation, and was still there when Miss McDonald came down.

CHAPTER IV

THE ATTACK