A WAY TO THE RIVER

She waited in agony as he sighted carefully, striving to gauge the
distance. It seemed an interminable time before his finger pressed the
trigger. Then came the report, a flash of flame, and the powder smoke
blown back in her face. Half-blinded by the discharge, she yet saw
that black smudge leap upright; again the Henry blazed, and the dim
figure went down. There was a cry--a mad yell of rage--in which
scattered voices joined; spits of fire cleaving the darkness, the
barking of guns of different calibre. A bit of flying lead tore
through the leather back of the coach with an odd rip; another struck
the casing of the door, sending the wooden splinters flying like
arrows. Hawk-eyed, Hamlin fired twice more, aiming at the sparks,
grimly certain that a responding howl from the left evidenced a hit.
Then, as quickly, all was still, intensely black once more. The
Sergeant drew back from the window, leaning his gun against the casing.

"That will hold them for a while," he said cheerfully. "Two less out
there, I reckon, and the others won't get careless again right away.
Now is our time; are you ready?"

There was no response, the stillness so profound he could hear the
faint ticking of the girl's watch. He reached out, almost alarmed, and
touched her dress.

"What is the trouble?" he questioned anxiously. "Didn't you hear me
speak?"

He waited breathless, but there was no movement, no sound, and his