soft hat, and an apparently slender figure.

Whatever slight noise I made was lost in the rattle of the wheels,
while the driver, utterly thoughtless as to any danger menacing him from
behind, concentrated his entire attention upon the road, and his efforts
to accelerate the speed of the pony. The present opportunity was as good
as I could ever hope for. I grasped the back of the seat with one hand,
a revolver in the other, pressed back the flap with my shoulder, and
inserted my head within. Not until my voice sounded at his very ear did
the fellow realize my presence.

"Pull up!" I said sternly. "Not a movement now; this is a gun at your
ear."

There was a sharp catch of the breath, a half turning of the head in the
surprise of the shock, but his hands held to reins and whip. Tossed
about as I was the fellow's coolness angered me.

"Pull up," I said; "do you think I'm playing with you?"

He drew in on the reins, letting the whip drop between his feet, and the
pony slowed down to a walk, and finally stopped. I could catch merely a
glimpse of the man's profile beneath the broad brim of the hat, but his
coolness and silence aroused my suspicions.

"No tricks now," I threatened. "If you value your life do exactly as I
say."

"Who are you?" It was a rich contralto voice, that of a boy rather than
a man, the slight blur of the South distinguishable even in those