The entire field stretching to the river was clear to the view, the
short, dry buffalo-grass offering no concealment. To the right of the
coach, some fifty feet away, was the only depression, a shallow gully
leading down from the bluff, but this slight advantage was unavailable.
The sun had already dropped from view, and the gathering twilight
distorted the figures, making them almost grotesque in their savagery.
Yet they could be clearly distinguished, stealing silently forward,
guns in hand, spreading out in a wide half-circle, obedient to the
gestures of Roman Nose, who, still mounted upon his pony, was
traversing the river bank, his every motion outlined against the dull
gleam of water behind him. From the black depths of the coach the
three men watched in almost breathless silence, gripping their weapons,
fascinated, determined not to waste a shot. Gonzales, under the
strain, uttered a fierce Spanish curse, but Hamlin crushed his arm
between iron fingers.

"Keep still, you fool!" he muttered, never glancing around. "Let your
gun talk!"

The assailants came creeping on, snakes rather than men, appearing less
and less human in the increasing shadows. Twice the Sergeant lifted
his Henry, sighting along the brown barrel, lowering the weapon again
in doubt of the distance. He was conscious of exultation, of a swifter
pulse of the heart, yet his nerves were like steel, his grip steady.
Only a dim fleeting memory of the girl, half hidden in the darkness
behind, gave him uneasiness--he could not turn and look into her eyes.
Roman Nose was advancing now at the centre of that creeping half
circle, a hulking figure perched on his pony's back, yet well out of
rifle range. He spread his hands apart, clasping a blanket, looking
like a great bird flapping its wings, and the ground in front flamed,