of a Winchester, the sharp spitting of a Colt. The smoke rolled out in
a cloud, pungent, concealing, nervous fingers pressing the triggers
again and again. They could see reeling horses, men gripping their
ponies' manes to keep erect, staring, frightened eyes, animals flung
back on their haunches, rearing madly in the air. The fierce yell of
exultation changed into a savage scream, bullets crashed into the thin
sides of the coach; it rocked with the contact of a half-naked body
flung forward by a plunging horse; the Mexican swore wildly in Spanish,
and then--the smoke blew aside and they saw the field; the dead and
dying ponies, three motionless bodies huddled on the grass, a few
dismounted stragglers racing on foot for the river bank, and a squad of
riders circling beyond the trail. Hamlin swept the mingled sweat and
blood out of his eyes, smiled grimly, and glanced back into the coach,
instinctively slipping fresh cartridges into his hot rifle.

"That's one time those fellows ran into a hornet's nest," he commented
quietly, all trace of excitement vanished. "Better load up, boys, for
we 're not through yet--they 'll only be more careful next time.
Anybody hurt?"

"Somethin' creased my back," replied Moylan, complainingly, and trying
vainly to put a hand on the spot. "Felt like a streak o' fire." The
Sergeant reached across, fingering the torn shirt curiously.

"Seared the flesh, pardner, but no blood worth mentioning. They 've
got some heavy artillery out there from the sound--old army muskets
likely. It is our repeating rifles that will win out--those red devils
don't understand them yet."

"Señor, you tink we win out den?" and Gonzales peered up blinking into