Must have ridden a hundred an' twenty miles since yesterday; the mustang is all in." Moylan stuck his head out the nearest window.
"Look like they had much of a fight at the Crossing ?" he asked.
"Not much; more like a night raid; two whites killed, and scalped.

The third man either was taken away, or his body got burnt in the building.
Horses all gone." "What tribe ?" "Arapahoes, from the way they scalped; that's what made it so serious--if those Northern Indians have broken loose there is going to be war this time for sure." The men on the box looked at each other questioningly.
"I don't see no use tryin' to go on, Jake, do you ?" asked the driver soberly.

"Even if we do git through, thar ain't no hosses to be had." The other shook his head, rubbing his gun-stock.
"Most likely those same red devils are layin' for us now somewhar between yere an' Low Water; whar the trail runs in between them two big rocks, most probable," he concluded.

"Not havin' no ha'r to lose, I 'm fer goin' back." With an oath of relief, the driver released his brake, and skilfully swung the leaders around, the coach groaning as it took the sharp turn.
The man on the ground caught a swiftly passing glimpse of the young woman's face within, and strode hurriedly forward as the coach started.
"Hold on there, pardner," he commanded sternly.

"This poor bronc' won't travel another mile.