"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.