He was conscious of exultation, of a swifter pulse of the heart, yet his nerves were like steel, his grip steady.
Only a dim fleeting memory of the girl, half hidden in the darkness behind, gave him uneasiness--he could not turn and look into her eyes.
Roman Nose was advancing now at the centre of that creeping half circle, a hulking figure perched on his pony's back, yet well out of rifle range.

He spread his hands apart, clasping a blanket, looking like a great bird flapping its wings, and the ground in front flamed, the red flare splitting the gray gloom.

The speeding bullets crashed through the leather of the coach, splintering the wood; the Mexican rolled to the floor, uttering one inhuman cry, and lay motionless; a great volume of black smoke wavered in the still air.
"Walt! Wait until they get to their feet!" Hamlin cried eagerly.

"Ah! there they come--now unlimber." He saw only those black, indistinct figures, leaping out of the smoke, converging on the coach, their naked arms uplifted, their voices mingling in savage yells.

Like lightning he worked his rifle, heart throbbing to the excitement, oblivious to all else; almost without realization he heard the deeper bellow of Moylan's Winchester, the sharp bark of a revolver at his very ear.