six times now in a year. Whoever the fellow is, if he's one man or a
gang of men, he's the nerviest road-agent since the days of Abe
Case."

Ranson in his then present mood was inclined toward pessimism. "It
doesn't take any nerve to hold up a coach," he contradicted.

Curtis and Crosby snorted in chorus. "That's what you say," mocked
Curtis.

"Well, it doesn't," repeated Ranson. "It's all a game of bluff. The
etiquette is that the driver mustn't shoot the road-agent, and that
the road-agent mustn't hurt the driver, and the passengers are too
scared to move. The moment they see a man rise out of the night they
throw up their hands. Why, even when a passenger does try to pull his
gun the others won't let him. Each thinks sure that if there's any
firing he will be the one to get hurt. And, besides, they don't know
how many more men the road agent may have behind him. I don't---"

A movement on the part of Miss Cahill caused him to pause abruptly.
Miss Cahill had descended from her throne and was advancing to meet
the post-trader, who came toward her from the exchange.

"Lightfoot's squaw," he said. "Her baby's worse. She's sent for you."

Miss Cahill gave a gasp of sympathy, snatched up her hat from the
counter, and the buffalo robes closed behind her.

Ranson stooped and reached for his sombrero. With the flight of Miss
Cahill his interest in the courage of the Red Rider had departed