crashed into the thin sides of the coach; it rocked with the contact of a half-naked body flung forward by a plunging horse; the Mexican swore wildly in Spanish, and then—­the smoke blew aside and they saw the field; the dead and dying ponies, three motionless bodies huddled on the grass, a few dismounted stragglers racing on foot for the river bank, and a squad of riders circling beyond the trail.  Hamlin swept the mingled sweat and blood out of his eyes, smiled grimly, and glanced back into the coach, instinctively slipping fresh cartridges into his hot rifle.

“That’s one time those fellows ran into a hornet’s nest,” he commented quietly, all trace of excitement vanished.  “Better load up, boys, for we ’re not through yet—­they ’ll only be more careful next time.  Anybody hurt?”

“Somethin’ creased my back,” replied Moylan, complainingly, and trying vainly to put a hand on the spot.  “Felt like a streak o’ fire.”  The Sergeant reached across, fingering the torn shirt curiously.

“Seared the flesh, pardner, but no blood worth mentioning.  They ’ve got some heavy artillery out there from the sound—­old army muskets likely.  It is our repeating rifles that will win out—­those red devils don’t understand them yet.”

“Senor, you tink we win out den?” and Gonzales peered up blinking into the other’s face.  “Sacre! dey vil fight deeferent de nex’ time.  Ze Americaine muskeet, eet carry so far—­ess eet not so?”

Hamlin patted his brown barrel affectionately as if it were an old friend, and smiled across into the questioning eyes of the girl.

“I ’m willing to back this weapon against the best of them for distance,” he replied easily, “and it’s accurate besides.  How about it, Moylan?”

“I ’d about as soon be in front as behind one of them cannon,” answered the sutler soberly.  “I toted one four years.  But say, pardner, what’s yer name?  Yer a cavalryman, ain’t yer?”

“Sergeant—­forgot I was n’t properly introduced,” and he bent his head slightly, glancing again toward the girl.  “Hamlin is the rest of it.”

“‘Brick’ Hamlin?”

“Sometimes—­delicate reference to my hair, miss,” and he took off his hat, his gray eyes laughing.  “Born that way, but does n’t seem to interfere with me much, since I was a kid.  You ’ve heard of me then, Moylan?  So has our little friend, Gonzales, here.”

The sober-faced sutler merely nodded, evidently in no mood for pleasantry.

“Oh, ye’re all right,” he said finally.  “I’ve heard ’em say you was a fighter down round Santa Fe, an’ I know it myself now.  But what the hell are we goin’ to do?  This yere stagecoach ain’t much of a fort to keep off a bunch o’ redskins once they git their mad up.  Them musket bullets go through like the sides was paper, an’ I reckon we ain’t got no over-supply o’ ammunition—­I know I ain’t fer this Winchester.  How long do yer reckon we kin hold out?”