Chapter 6

THE CONDITION IN THE COACH

Mechanically--scarcely conscious of the action--the Sergeant slipped fresh cartridges into the hot rifle chamber, swept the tumbled hair out of his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and stared into the night. He could hardly comprehend yet that the affair was ended, the second attack repulsed. It was like a delirium of fever; he almost expected to see those motionless bodies outstretched on the grass spring up, yelling defiance. Then he gripped himself firmly, realizing the truth--it was over with for the present; away off there in the haze obscuring the river bank those indistinct black smudges were fleeing savages, their voices wailing through the night. Just in front, formless, huddled where they had fallen, were the bodies of dead and dying, smitten ponies and half-naked men. He drew a deep breath through clinched teeth, endeavoring to distinguish his comrades.

The interior of the coach was black, and soundless, except for some one's swift, excited breathing. As he extended his cramped leg to the floor he touched a motionless body. Not until then had he realized the possibility of death also within. He felt downward with one hand, his nerves suddenly throbbing, and his finger touched a cold face--the Mexican. It must have been that last volley, for he could distinctly recall the sharp bark of Gonzales' revolver between his own shots.

"The little devil," he muttered soberly. "It was a squarer death than he deserved. He was a game little cock."

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 gave clear vision of what would probably occur. They would wait, scattered out in a wide circle from bluff to bluff, lying snake-like in the grass. Some of the bolder might creep in to drag away the bodies of dead warriors, risking a chance shot, but there would be no open attack in the dark. That would be averse to all Indian strategy, all precedent. Even now the mournful wailing had ceased; Roman Nose had rallied his warriors, instilled into them his own unconquerable savagery, and set them on watch. With the first gray dawn they would come again, leaping to the coach's wheels, yelling, triumphant, mad with new ferocity--and he was alone, except for the girl.

And where was she? He felt for her on the floor, but only touched the Mexican's feet. He had to lean across the seat where Moylan's body lay, shrouded in darkness, before his groping fingers came in contact with the skirt of her dress. She was on the front seat, close to the window; against the lightness of the outer sky, her head seemed lying upon the wooden frame. She did not move, he could not even tell that she breathed, and for an instant his dry lips failed him utterly, his blood seemed to stop. Good God! Had she been killed also? How, in Heaven's name, did she ever get there? Then suddenly she lifted her head slightly, brushing back her hair with one arm; the faint starlight gleamed on a short steel barrel. The Sergeant expelled his breath swiftly, wetting his dry lips.

"Are you hurt?" he questioned anxiously. "Lord, but you gave me a scare!"

She seemed to hear his voice, yet scarcely to understand, like one aroused suddenly from sleep.

"What! you spoke--then--then--there are others? I--I am not here all alone?"

"Not if you count me," he said, a trace of recklessness in the answer. "I have n't even a scratch so far as I know. Did they touch you?"

"No; that is, I am not quite sure; it--it was all so horrible I cannot remember. Who are you? Are you the--the soldier?"

"Yes--I 'm Hamlin. Would you mind telling me how you ever got over there?"

She straightened up, seemed to notice the heavy revolver in her fingers, and let it fall to the floor.

"Oh, it is like a dream--an awful dream. I could n't help myself. When the Mexican rolled off on to the floor, I knew he was dead, and--and there was his revolver held right out to me in his hand. Before I realized I had it, and was up here--I--I killed one--he--he fell in the wheel; I--I can never forget that!"

"Don't try," broke in Hamlin earnestly. "You 're all right," he added, admiration in his voice. "And so it was you there with the small gun. I heard it bark, but never knew Gonzales was hit. When did it happen?"

"When--when they fired first. It--it was all smoke out there when I got to the window; they--they looked like--like wild beasts, and it did n't seem to me I was myself at all."

The man laughed lightly.

"You did the right thing, that 's all," he consoled, anxious to control her excitement. "Now you and I must decide what to do next--we are all alone."

"Alone! Has Mr. Moylan been hit also?"

"Yes," he answered, feeling it was better to tell her frankly. "He was shot, and is beyond our help. But come," and he reached over and took her hand, "you must not give up now."

She offered no resistance, but sat motionless, her face turned away. Yet she knew she trembled from head to foot, the reaction mastering her. A red tongue of flame seemed to slit the outside blackness; there was a single sharp report, echoing back from the bluff, but no sound of the striking bullet. Just an instant he caught a glimpse of her face, as she drew back, startled.

"Oh, they are coming again! What shall we do?"

"No," he insisted, still retaining her hand, confident in his judgment. "Those fellows will not attempt to rush us again to-night. You must keep cool, for we shall need all our wits to get away. An Indian never risks a night assault, unless it is a surprise. He wants to see what he is up against. Those bucks have got all they want of this outfit; they have no reason to suppose any of us were hit. They are as much afraid as we are, but when it gets daylight, and they can see the shape we 're in, then they 'll come yelling."

"But they can lie out there in the dark and shoot," she protested. "That shot was aimed at us, was n't it?"

"I reckon it was, but it never got here. Don't let that worry you; if an Indian ever hits anything with a gun it 's going to be by pure accident." He stared out of the window. "They 're liable to bang away occasionally, and I suppose it is up to us to make some response just to tell them we 're awake and ready. But they ain't firing expecting to do damage--only to attract attention while they haul off their dead. There 's a red snake yonder now creeping along in the grass--see!"

"No," hysterically, "it is just black to me."

"You have n't got the plainsman's eyes yet. Watch, now; I 'm going to stir the fellow up."

He leaned forward, the stock of the Henry held to his shoulder, and she clutched the window-casing. An instant the muzzle of the rifle wavered slightly, then steadied into position.

"Have to guess the distance," he muttered in explanation, and pulled the trigger.

There was a lightning flash, a sharp ringing report, a yell in the distance, followed by the sound of scrambling. Hamlin laughed, as he lowered his gun.

"Made him hump, anyway," he commented cheerfully. "Now what comes next?"

"I--I do not know," she answered, as though the question had been asked her, "do you?"

Somehow she was not as frightened as she had been. The calm steady coolness of the man was having its natural effect, was helping to control her own nerves. She felt his strength, his confidence, and was beginning to lean upon him--he seemed to know exactly what he was about.

"Well, no, honestly I don't; not yet," he returned, hesitating slightly. "There is no use denying we are in a mighty bad hole. If Moylan had n't got shot we might have held out till help arrived; I 've got about twenty cartridges left; but you and I alone never could do it. I 've got to think it out, I reckon; this has been a blind fight so far; nothing to it but blazing away as fast as I could pull trigger. Now, maybe, I can use my brains a bit."

She could not see him, but some instinct led her to put out her hand and touch the rough sleeve of his shirt. It made her sure of his presence, his protection. The man felt the movement, and understood its meaning, his heart throbbing strangely.

"You are going to trust me?"

"Of--of course; how could you doubt that?"

"Well," still half questioning, "you see I 'm only an enlisted man, and sometimes officers' ladies think we are mostly pretty poor stuff, just food for powder."

She tightened her grip on his sleeve, drawing a quick breath of surprise.

"Oh, but I am not like that; truly I am not. I--I saw your face this afternoon, and--and I liked you then. I will do whatever you say."

"Thank you," he said simply. "To know that makes everything so much easier for me. We shall have to work together from now on. You keep sharp watch at the window there, while I think a bit--there 's ordinarily a chance somewhere, you know, if one is only bright enough to uncover it."

How still the night was, and dark; although the sky was cloudless, the stars shone clearly away up in the black vault. Not even the howl of a distant coyote broke the silence. To the left, seemingly a full half-mile distant, was the red flicker of a fire, barely visible behind a projection of bank. But in front not even the keen eyes of the Sergeant could distinguish any sign of movement. Apparently the Indians had abandoned their attempt to recover the bodies of their dead.