Miss Post turned to the travelling salesman.  “He wants you to get out,” she said.

“Wants me!” exclaimed the drummer.  “I’m not armed, you know.”  In a louder voice he protested, faintly:  “I say, I’m not armed.”

“Come out!” demanded the mask.

The drummer precipitated himself violently over the knees of the ladies into the road below, and held his hands high above him.  “I’m not armed,” he said; “indeed I’m not.”

“Stand over there, with your back to that rock,” the mask ordered.  For a moment the road agent regarded him darkly, pointing his weapon meditatively at different parts of the salesman’s person.  He suggested a butcher designating certain choice cuts.  The drummer’s muscles jerked under the torture as though his anatomy were being prodded with an awl.

“I want your watch,” said the mask.  The drummer reached eagerly for his waistcoat.

“Hold up your hands!” roared the road agent.  “By the eternal, if you play any rough-house tricks on me I’ll—­” He flourished his weapon until it flashed luminously.

An exclamation from Hunk Smith, opportunely uttered, saved the drummer from what was apparently instant annihilation.  “Say, Rider,” cried the driver, “I can’t hold my arms up no longer.  I’m going to put ’em down.  But you leave me alone, an’ I’ll leave you alone.  Is that a bargain?” The shrouded figure whirled his weapon upon the speaker.  “Have I ever stopped you before, Hunk?” he demanded.

Hunk, at this recognition of himself as a public character, softened instantly.  “I dunno whether ’twas you or one of your gang, but—­”

“Well, you’ve still got your health, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep quiet,” snarled the mask.

In retort Hunk Smith muttered audible threatenings, but sank obediently into an inert heap.  Only his eyes, under cover of his sombrero, roamed restlessly.  They noted the McClellan saddle on the Red Rider’s horse, the white patch on its near fore-foot, the empty stirrup-straps, and at a great distance, so great that the eyes only of a plainsman could have detected it, a cloud of dust, or smoke, or mist, that rode above the trail and seemed to be moving swiftly down upon them.

At the sight, Hunk shifted the tobacco in his cheek and nervously crossed his knees, while a grin of ineffable cunning passed across his face.

With his sombrero in his hand, the Red Rider stepped to the wheel of the stage.  As he did so, Miss Post observed that above the line of his kerchief his hair was evenly and carefully parted in the middle.

“I’m afraid, ladies,” said the road agent, “that I have delayed you unnecessarily.  It seems that I have called up the wrong number.”  He emitted a reassuring chuckle, and, fanning himself with his sombrero, continued speaking in a tone of polite irony:  “The Wells, Fargo messenger is the party I am laying for.  He’s coming over this trail with a package of diamonds.  That’s what I’m after.  At first I thought ‘Fighting Bob’ over there by the rock might have it on him; but he doesn’t act like any Wells, Fargo Express agent I have ever tackled before, and I guess the laugh’s on me.  I seem to have been weeping over the wrong grave.”  He replaced his sombrero on his head at a rakish angle, and waved his hand.  “Ladies, you are at liberty to proceed.”