also.

But Crosby appealed to the new-comer, "Cahill, YOU know," he said.
"We've been talking of the man they call the Red Rider, the chap that
wears a red bandanna over his face. Ranson says he hasn't any nerve.
That's not so, is it?"

"I said it didn't take any nerve to hold up a stage," said Ranson;
"and it doesn't."

The post-trader halted on his way back to the exchange and rubbed one
hand meditatively over the other arm. With him speech was golden and
difficult. After a pause he said: "Oh, he takes his chances."

"Of course he does," cried Crosby, encouragingly. "He takes the
chance of being shot by the passengers, and of being caught by the
posse and lynched, but this man's got away with it now six times in
the last year. And I say that takes nerve."

"Why, for fifty dollars---" laughed Ranson.

He checked himself, and glanced over his shoulder at the retreating
figure of Cahill. The buffalo robes fell again, and the spurs of the
post-trader could be heard jangling over the earth-floor of the
exchange.

"For fifty dollars," repeated Ranson, in brisk, businesslike tones,
"I'll rob the up stage to-night myself!"

Previous knowledge of his moods, the sudden look of mischief in his