The driver once again slapped on the brake, growling and reluctant, his anxious eyes searching the trail in both directions.  Hamlin quietly uncinched his saddle, flinging it to the coach roof; the bridle followed, and then, with a slap on the haunch of the released animal, he strode to the stage door, thrust his Henry rifle within, and took the vacant seat beside Gonzales.  With a sudden crack of the driver’s whip the four horses leaped forward, and the coach careened on the slope of the trail, causing the passengers to clutch wildly to keep from being precipitated into a mass on the floor.  As the traces straightened, Miss Molly, clinging desperately to a strap, caught her first fair glance at the newcomer.  His hat was tilted back, the light revealing lines of weariness and a coating of the gray, powdery dust of the alkali desert, but beneath it appeared the brown, sun-scorched skin, while the gray eyes looking straight at her, were resolute and smiling.  His rough shirt, open at the throat, might have been the product of any sutler’s counter; he wore no jacket, and the broad yellow stripe down the leg of the faded blue trousers alone proclaimed him a soldier.  He smiled across at her, and she lowered her eyes, while his glance wandered on toward the others.

“Don’t seem to be very crowded to-day,” he began, genially addressing Moylan.  “Not an extremely popular route at present, I reckon.  Mining, pardner?”

“No; post-trader at Fort Marcy.”

“Oh, that’s it,” his eyebrows lifting slightly.  “This Indian business is a bad job for you then.”  His eyes fell on his seatmate.  “Well, if this is n’t little Gonzales!—­You ’ve got a good ways from home.”

“Si, senor!” returned the Mexican brokenly.  “I tink I not remem.”

“No, I reckon not.  I’m not one of your class; cards and I never did agree.  I shut up your game once down at Union; night Hassinger was killed.  Remember now, don’t you?”

“Si, senor,” spreading his hands.  “It was mos’ unfortunate.”

“Would have been more so, if the boys had got hold of you—­Saint Anne! but that fellow on the box is driving some.”

The thud of the horses’ feet under the lash, coupled with the reckless lurching of the coach, ended all further attempt at conversation, and the four passengers held on grimly, and stared out of the windows, as if expecting every instant that some accident would hurl them headlong.  The frightened driver was apparently sparing neither whip nor tongue, the galloping teams jerking the stage after them in a mad race up the trail.  Hamlin thrust his head out of the nearest window, but a sudden lurch hurled him back, the coach taking a sharp curve on two wheels, and coming down level once again with a bump which brought the whole four together.  The little Mexican started to scream out a Spanish oath, but Hamlin gripped his throat before it was half uttered, while Moylan pressed the girl back into her seat, bracing himself to hold her firm.