The road agent waved his hand to the young lady.  “Good-by,” he said.

“Au revoir,” said Miss Post, pleasantly.

“Good-by, miss,” stammered the road agent,

“I said ‘Au revoir,’” repeated Miss Post.

The road agent, apparently routed by these simple words, fled muttering toward his horse.

Hunk Smith was having trouble with his brake.  He kicked at it and, stooping, pulled at it, but the wheels did not move.

Mrs. Truesdall fell into a fresh panic.  “What is it now?” she called, miserably.

Before he answered, Hunk Smith threw a quick glance toward the column of moving dust.  He was apparently reassured.

“The brake,” he grunted.  “The darned thing’s stuck!”

The road agent was tugging at the stone beneath which he had slipped his bridle.  “Can I help?” he asked, politely.  But before he reached the stage, he suddenly stopped with an imperative sweep of his arm for silence.  He stood motionless, his body bent to the ground, leaning forward and staring down the trail.  Then he sprang upright.  “You old fox!” he roared, “you’re gaining time, are you?”

With a laugh he tore free his bridle and threw himself across his horse.  His legs locked under it, his hands clasped its mane, and with a cowboy yell he dashed past the stage in the direction of Kiowa City, his voice floating back in shouts of jeering laughter.  From behind him he heard Hunk Smith’s voice answering his own in a cry for “Help!” and from a rapidly decreasing distance the throb of many hoofs.  For an instant he drew upon his rein, and then, with a defiant chuckle, drove his spurs deep into his horse’s side.

Mrs. Truesdall also heard the pounding of many hoofs, as well as Hunk Smith’s howls for help, and feared a fresh attack.  “Oh, what is it?” she begged

“Soldiers from the fort,” Hunk called, excitedly, and again raised his voice in a long, dismal howl.

“Sounds cheery, doesn’t it?” said the salesman; “referring to the soldiers,” he explained.  It was his first coherent remark since the Red Rider had appeared and disappeared.

“Oh, I hope they won’t—­” began Miss Post, anxiously.

The hoof-beats changed to thunder, and with the pounding on the dry trail came the jangle of stirrups and sling-belts.  Then a voice, and the coach was surrounded by dust-covered troopers and horses breathing heavily.  Lieutenant Crosby pulled up beside the window of the stage.  “Are you there, Colonel Patten?” he panted.  He peered forward into the stage, but no one answered him.  “Is the paymaster in here?” he demanded.

The voice of Lieutenant Curtis shouted in turn at Hunk Smith.  “Is the paymaster in there, driver?”

“Paymaster?  No!” Hunk roared.  “A drummer and three ladies.  We’ve been held up.  The Red Rider—­” He rose and waved his whip over the top of the coach.  “He went that way.  You can ketch him easy.”