The trail at last was level.
Mrs. Truesdall's eyes closed. Her head fell forward. But Miss Post,
weary as she was in body, could not sleep. To her the night-ride was
full of strange and wonderful mysteries. Gratefully she drank in the
dry scent of the prairie-grass, and, holding by the frame of the
window, leaned far out over the wheel. As she did so, a man sprang
into the trail from behind a wall of rock, and shouted hoarsely. He
was covered to his knees with a black mantle. His face was hidden by
a blood-red mask.
"Throw up your hands!" he commanded. There was a sharp creaking as
the brakes locked, and from the driver's seat an amazed oath. The
stage stopped with a violent jerk, and Mrs. Truesdall pitched gently
forward toward her niece.
"I really believe I was asleep, Helen," she murmured. "What are we
waiting for?"
"I think we are held up," said Miss Post.
The stage had halted beyond the wall of rock, and Miss Post looked
behind it, but no other men were visible, only a horse with his
bridle drawn around a stone. The man in the mask advanced upon the
stage, holding a weapon at arm's-length. In the moonlight it flashed
and glittered evilly.
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