ame of mind. He was meditative over his troubles that, for
all his care, seemed to be increasing. Relieved in that, but an hour
before, $50,000 in bullion had been loaded into the stage, and was now
rolling down the canon on the way to its legitimate destination. His
meditations were abruptly broken, and his sense of relief violently
dissipated, when the office-door was thrust open, and hatless, with
clothing torn to shreds, the stage-driver stood before him, his beard
clotted with blood which flowed from a jagged cut that reached from his
forehead across his cheek.

Firmstone sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation. The driver
swept his hand over his blood-clotted lips.

"No; 'tain't a hold-up; just a plain, flat wreck. The whole outfit went
over the cliff at the Devil's Elbow. I stayed with my job long's I
could, but that wa'n't no decades."

Firmstone dragged the man into his laboratory, and carefully began to
wash the blood from his face.

"That's too long a process, gov'ner." The driver soused his head into
the bucket of cold water which Firmstone had drawn from the faucet.

"Can you walk now?" Firmstone asked.

"Reckon I'll try it a turn. Been flyin', for all I know. Must have been,
to get up the cliff. I flew down; that much I know. Lit on a few places.
That's where I got this." He pointed to the cut.

Firmstone led the man to his own room adjoining the office, and opening
a small chest, took out some rolls of plaster and bandages. He began
drying the wound.

The office-door again opened and the bookkeeper entered.

"Go tell Bennie to come down right away," Firmstone ordered, without
pausing in his work.

Satisfied that the man's skull was not fractured, he drew the edges of
the wound together and fastened them with strips of plaster. A few
minutes later Bennie, followed by Zephyr, hurriedly entered the office.
Paying no attention to their startled exclamations, Firmstone said:

"I wish you would look after Jim. He's badly hurt. He'll tell you about
it. You said at the Devil's Elbow?" turning to the driver.

Zephyr glanced critically at the man; then, making up his mind that he
was not needed, he said:

"I'll go along with you. Are you heeled?"

Firmstone made no audible reply, but took down his revolver and
cartridge-belt, and buckled them on.

"'Tain't the heels you want; it's wings and fins. They won't be much
good, either. The whole outfit's in the San Miguel. I followed it that
far,