"Something to keep as a pocket-piece," she said,
mockingly, "to remind you of your kindness to three lone females in
distress."
Still silent, the road agent reached for the money, and then growled
at her in a tone which had suddenly become gruff and overbearing. It
suggested to Miss Post the voice of the head of the family playing
Santa Claus for the children. "And now you, miss," he demanded.
Miss Post took another coin from the heap, studied its inscription,
and passed it through the window. "This one is from me," she said.
"Mine is dated 1901. The moonlight," she added, leaning far forward
and smiling out at him, "makes it quite easy to see the date; as
easy," she went on, picking her words, "as it is to see your peculiar
revolver and the coat-of-arms on your ring." She drew her head back."
Good-night," she cooed, sweetly.
The Red Rider jumped from the door. An exclamation which might have
been a laugh or an oath was smothered by his mask. He turned swiftly
upon the salesman. "Get back into the coach," he commanded. "And you,
Hunk," he called, "if you send a posse after me, next night I ketch
you out here alone you'll lose the top of your head.
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