s, like those you
see under the brows of a north-country tug-boat captain. Passengers
could there eat flap-jacks architecturally warranted to hold together
against the most vigorous attack of the gastric juices, and drink green
tea that tasted of tannin and really demanded for its proper
accommodation porcelain-lined insides. It was not an inspiring trip.

Of course, Billy did not accompany the stage all of the way; only the
last hundred miles; but the passengers did, and by the time they reached
Billy they were usually heartily sick of their undertaking. Once a
tenderfoot came through in the fall of the year, simply for the love of
adventure. He got it.

"Driver," said he to Billy, as the brakes set for another plunge, "were
you ever held up?"

Billy had been deluged with questions like this for the last two hours.
Usually he looked straight in front of him, spat accurately between the
tail of the wheel-horse and the whiffle-tree, and answered in
monosyllables. The tenderfoot did not know that asking questions was not
the way to induce Billy to talk.

"Held up?" replied Billy, with scorn. "Young feller, I is held up
thirty-seven times in th' last year."

"Thunderation!" exclaimed the tenderfoot. "What do you do? Do you have
much trouble getting away? Have you had much fighting?"

"Fight nothin'. I ain't hired to fight. I'm hired to drive stage."

"And you just let them go through you?" cried the tenderfoot.

Billy was stung by the contempt in the stranger's tone.

"Go through nothin'," he explained. "They isn't touchin' _me_ none
whatever. Put her down fer argument that I'm damn fool enough to
sprinkle lead 'round some, and that I gets away. What happens? Nex' time
I drives stage some of these yere agents massacrees me from behind a
bush. Whar do I come in? Nary bit!"

The tenderfoot, struck by the logic of this reasoning, fell silent.
After an interval the sun set in a film of yellow light; then the
afterglow followed; and finally the stars pricked out the true immensity
of the prairies.

"_He's_ the feller hired to fight," observed the shadowy Billy, jerking
his thumb backward.

The tenderfoot now understood the silent, grim man who, unapproachable
and solitary, had alone occupied the seat on top of the stage. Looking
with more curiosity, the tenderfoot observed a shot-gun with abnormally
short barrels, slung in two brass clips along the back of the seat in
front of the messenger. The usual revolvers,