the other's face. "Sacre! dey vil fight deeferent de nex' time. Ze
Americaine muskeet, eet carry so far--ess eet not so?"

Hamlin patted his brown barrel affectionately as if it were an old
friend, and smiled across into the questioning eyes of the girl.

"I 'm willing to back this weapon against the best of them for
distance," he replied easily, "and it's accurate besides. How about
it, Moylan?"

"I 'd about as soon be in front as behind one of them cannon," answered
the sutler soberly. "I toted one four years. But say, pardner, what's
yer name? Yer a cavalryman, ain't yer?"

"Sergeant--forgot I was n't properly introduced," and he bent his head
slightly, glancing again toward the girl. "Hamlin is the rest of it."

"'Brick' Hamlin?"

"Sometimes--delicate reference to my hair, miss," and he took off his
hat, his gray eyes laughing. "Born that way, but does n't seem to
interfere with me much, since I was a kid. You 've heard of me then,
Moylan? So has our little friend, Gonzales, here."

The sober-faced sutler merely nodded, evidently in no mood for
pleasantry.

"Oh, ye're all right," he said finally. "I've heard 'em say you was a
fighter down round Santa Fé, an' I know it myself now. But what the
hell are we goin' to do? This yere stagecoach ain't much of a fort to