too, were secured, instead
of by the regulation holsters, in brass clips riveted to the belt, so
that in case of necessity they could be snatched free with one forward
sweep of the arm. The man met his gaze keenly.

"Them Hills ain't fur now," vouchsafed Billy, as a cold breeze from the
west lifted the limp brim of his hat, and a film of cloud drew with
uncanny and silent rapidity across the stars.

The tenderfoot had turned again to look at the messenger, who interested
him exceedingly, when the stage came to a stop so violent as almost to
throw him from his seat. He recovered his balance with difficulty.
Billy, his foot braced against the brake, was engaged in leisurely
winding the reins around it.

"_Hands up, I say!_" cried a sharp voice from the darkness ahead.

"Meanin' you," observed Billy to the tenderfoot, at the same time
thrusting his own over his head and settling down comfortably on the
small of his back. "Time!" he called, facetiously, to the darkness.

As though at the signal the night split with the roar of buckshot, and
splintered with the answering crackle of a six-shooter three times
repeated. The screech of the brake had deceived the messenger as to the
whereabouts of the voice. He had jumped to the ground on the wrong side
of the stage, thus finding himself without protection against his
opponent, who, firing at the flash of the shot-gun, had brought him to
the ground.

The road-agent stepped confidently forward. "Billy," said he,
pleasantly, "jest pitch me that box."

Billy climbed over the seat and dropped a heavy, iron-bound case to the
ground. "Danged if I thinks anybody _kin_ git Buck, thar," he remarked,
in thoughtful reference to the messenger.

"Now, drive on," commanded the road-agent.

Three hours later Billy and the sobered tenderfoot pulled into Deadwood.
Ten minutes taught the camp what had occurred.

Now, it must be premised that Deadwood had recently chosen a sheriff. He
did not look much like a sheriff, for he was small and weak and bald,
and most childlike as to expression of countenance. But when I tell you
that his name was Alfred, you will know that it was all right. To him
the community looked for initiative. It expected him to organise a
posse, which would, of course, consist of every man in the place not
otherwise urgently employed, and to enter upon instant pursuit. He did
not.

"How many is they?" he asked of Billy.

"One lonesome one," replied the stage-drive