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.