"I want your watch," said the mask. The drummer reached eagerly for
his waistcoat.
"Hold up your hands!" roared the road agent. "By the eternal, if you
play any rough-house tricks on me I'll--" He flourished his weapon
until it flashed luminously.
An exclamation from Hunk Smith, opportunely uttered, saved the
drummer from what was apparently instant annihilation. "Say, Rider,"
cried the driver, "I can't hold my arms up no longer. I'm going to
put 'em down. But you leave me alone, an' I'll leave you alone. Is
that a bargain?" The shrouded figure whirled his weapon upon the
speaker. "Have I ever stopped you before, Hunk?" he demanded.
Hunk, at this recognition of himself as a public character, softened
instantly. "I dunno whether 'twas you or one of your gang, but--"
"Well, you've still got your health, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Then keep quiet," snarled the mask.
In retort Hunk Smith muttered audible threatenings, but sank
obediently into an inert heap. Only his eyes, under cover of his
sombrero, roamed restlessly. They noted the McClellan saddle on the
Red Rider's horse, the white patch on its near fore-foot, the empty
stirrup-straps, and at a great distance, so great that the eyes only
of a plainsman could have detected it, a cloud of dust, or smoke, or
mist, that rode above the trail and seemed to be moving swiftly down
upon them.
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