slope of the trail, causing the passengers to clutch wildly to keep
from being precipitated into a mass on the floor. As the traces
straightened, Miss Molly, clinging desperately to a strap, caught her
first fair glance at the newcomer. His hat was tilted back, the light
revealing lines of weariness and a coating of the gray, powdery dust of
the alkali desert, but beneath it appeared the brown, sun-scorched
skin, while the gray eyes looking straight at her, were resolute and
smiling. His rough shirt, open at the throat, might have been the
product of any sutler's counter; he wore no jacket, and the broad
yellow stripe down the leg of the faded blue trousers alone proclaimed
him a soldier. He smiled across at her, and she lowered her eyes,
while his glance wandered on toward the others.

"Don't seem to be very crowded to-day," he began, genially addressing
Moylan. "Not an extremely popular route at present, I reckon. Mining,
pardner?"

"No; post-trader at Fort Marcy."

"Oh, that's it," his eyebrows lifting slightly. "This Indian business
is a bad job for you then." His eyes fell on his seatmate. "Well, if
this is n't little Gonzales!--You 've got a good ways from home."

"Si, señor!" returned the Mexican brokenly. "I tink I not remem."

"No, I reckon not. I'm not one of your class; cards and I never did
agree. I shut up your game once down at Union; night Hassinger was
killed. Remember now, don't you?"

"Si, señor," spreading his hands. "It was mos' unfortunate."