Then he thought of Moylan, wondering why the man did not move, or
speak. That was not like Moylan. He bent forward, half afraid in the
stillness, endeavoring to discover space on the floor for both his
feet. He could perceive now a distant star showing clear through the
ragged opening jabbed in the back of the coach, but no outline of the
sutler's burly shoulders.

"Moylan!" he called, hardly above a whisper. "What is the trouble?
Have you been hit, man?"

There was no answer, no responding sound, and he stood up, reaching
kindly over across the seat. Then he knew, and felt a shudder run
through him from head to foot. Bent double over the iron back of the
middle seat, with hands still gripping his hot rifle, the man hung,
limp and lifeless. Almost without realizing the act, Hamlin lifted the
heavy body, laid it down upon the cushion, and unclasped the dead
fingers gripping the Winchester stock.

"Every shot gone," he whispered to himself dazedly, "every shot gone!
Ain't that hell!"

Then it came to him in a sudden flash of intelligence--he was alone;
alone except for the girl. They were out there yet, skulking in the
night, planning revenge, those savage foemen--Arapahoes, Cheyennes,
Ogallas. They had been beaten back, defeated, smitten with death, but
they were Indians still. They would come back for the bodies of their
slain, and then--what? They could not know who were living, who dead,
in the coach; yet must have discovered long since that it had only
contained three defenders. They would guess that ammunition would be
limited. His knowledge of the fighting tactics of the Plains tribes