“Every shot gone,” he whispered to himself dazedly, “every shot gone!  Ain’t that hell!”

Then it came to him in a sudden flash of intelligence—­he was alone; alone except for the girl.  They were out there yet, skulking in the night, planning revenge, those savage foemen—­Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Ogallas.  They had been beaten back, defeated, smitten with death, but they were Indians still.  They would come back for the bodies of their slain, and then—­what?  They could not know who were living, who dead, in the coach; yet must have discovered long since that it had only contained three defenders.  They would guess that ammunition would be limited.  His knowledge of the fighting tactics of the Plains tribes gave clear vision of what would probably occur.  They would wait, scattered out in a wide circle from bluff to bluff, lying snake-like in the grass.  Some of the bolder might creep in to drag away the bodies of dead warriors, risking a chance shot, but there would be no open attack in the dark.  That would be averse to all Indian strategy, all precedent.  Even now the mournful wailing had ceased; Roman Nose had rallied his warriors, instilled into them his own unconquerable savagery, and set them on watch.  With the first gray dawn they would come again, leaping to the coach’s wheels, yelling, triumphant, mad with new ferocity—­and he was alone, except for the girl.

And where was she?  He felt for her on the floor, but only touched the Mexican’s feet.  He had to lean across the seat where Moylan’s body lay, shrouded in darkness, before his groping fingers came in contact with the skirt of her dress.  She was on the front seat, close to the window; against the lightness of the outer sky, her head seemed lying upon the wooden frame.  She did not move, he could not even tell that she breathed, and for an instant his dry lips failed him utterly, his blood seemed to stop.  Good God!  Had she been killed also?  How, in Heaven’s name, did she ever get there?  Then suddenly she lifted her head slightly, brushing back her hair with one arm; the faint starlight gleamed on a short steel barrel.  The Sergeant expelled his breath swiftly, wetting his dry lips.

“Are you hurt?” he questioned anxiously.  “Lord, but you gave me a scare!”

She seemed to hear his voice, yet scarcely to understand, like one aroused suddenly from sleep.

“What! you spoke—­then—­then—­there are others?  I—­I am not here all alone?”

“Not if you count me,” he said, a trace of recklessness in the answer.  “I have n’t even a scratch so far as I know.  Did they touch you?”

“No; that is, I am not quite sure; it—­it was all so horrible I cannot remember.  Who are you?  Are you the—­the soldier?”

“Yes—­I ’m Hamlin.  Would you mind telling me how you ever got over there?”

She straightened up, seemed to notice the heavy revolver in her fingers, and let it fall to the floor.