Hunk, at this recognition of himself as a public character, softened
instantly. "I dunno whether 'twas you or one of your gang, but--"

"Well, you've still got your health, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Then keep quiet," snarled the mask.

In retort Hunk Smith muttered audible threatenings, but sank
obediently into an inert heap. Only his eyes, under cover of his
sombrero, roamed restlessly. They noted the McClellan saddle on the
Red Rider's horse, the white patch on its near fore-foot, the empty
stirrup-straps, and at a great distance, so great that the eyes only
of a plainsman could have detected it, a cloud of dust, or smoke, or
mist, that rode above the trail and seemed to be moving swiftly down
upon them.

At the sight, Hunk shifted the tobacco in his cheek and nervously
crossed his knees, while a grin of ineffable cunning passed across
his face.

With his sombrero in his hand, the Red Rider stepped to the wheel of
the stage. As he did so, Miss Post observed that above the line of
his kerchief his hair was evenly and carefully parted in the middle.

"I'm afraid, ladies," said the road agent, "that I have delayed you
unnecessarily. It seems that I have called up the wrong number." He
emitted a reassuring chuckle, and, fanning himself with his sombrero,