Within
ten minutes Hap Smith was clattering on, his and the guard's mouths and
eyes grim and hard, and Thornton had again dropped behind, just out of
sight around the first bend in the road.
"And now, my boy," muttered Hap Smith to his friend the guard, "keep
both eyes peeled and your trigger-finger free. Hell's goin' to pop in
considerable less'n no time."
Nor was the stage driver unduly pessimistic. Half an hour after Blackie
had gone down among boxes and bags the lumbering vehicle thundered into
one of the many deep gorges through which the narrow road wound. Here
was a sharp turn and a bit of steep grade to take on the run if the
stage were to keep to schedule time. But suddenly and with a curse from
Smith and a sharp exclamation from the guard, Hap slammed on his brake.
A newly fallen pine tree, three feet thick, lay across the road.
The guard's rifle was ready in his hands; in a flash Hap Smith had
dropped his reins so that they were held only by the ring caught over
the little hook at the back of the seat and had whipped out his own big
ugly revolver. His eyes ran this way and that; in his soul he knew well
enough that no mere bit of chance had thrown the obstruction across his
way. But never a head nor an arm nor a rifle barrel rewarded his look.
Pages:
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298