Baldy called Scot back as he was leaving. The stage driver’s face was one wrinkled grin. “You ce’tainly take the cake, old alkali. I got to give it to you. Afraid the stage will be attacked, are you? Dad gum yore hide, you know Injuns won’t dare come up here on the peck.” “I’d hate to have the jewellery gentleman take any chances,” Scot explained. “And preachin’ on the plaza. Don’t you know there’s hawss racin’ here every Sunday?” cackled Baldy. “Competition is the life of trade. The ladies can meet an’ pray for their wicked husbands. They need it, don’t they?” “Sure do. Well, I got no kick comin’. I won’t be here Sunday.” Neither was Scot. He and his brother travelled Virginiaward in the morning. The “mud-wagon” had been left at Carson. They travelled in a beautiful painted Concord stage behind six high-stepping chestnuts decked with ivory rings, silver tassels, and expensive harness. Baldy drove superbly. He and his kind were knights of the road. The wranglers and attendants were deferential to them, the public viewed them admiringly as celebrities. Baldy drew on his gauntlets slowly, mounted to the box, and took the ribbons from the hand of a hostler. There was a swift tightening of the reins, a sweeping crack of the whip. The leaders came round on the run, the swings at a gallop, and the wheelers at a trot. The ride to Virginia was one worth taking. The road wound round curves, dropped into draws, swept along dugways beneath which were deep precipices. When he hit the curves Baldy gave the wheels play. Occasionally one of the back ones hung precariously over space. A minute later the stage perhaps had struck a level and the driver was riding the brakes while the horses dashed wildly forward. Ten miles an hour, up hill and down, over the precipitous mountain road, the chestnuts travelled wildly, every foot of the way guided by the man on the box who handled them coolly and expertly. Meanwhile, Baldy discussed casually with Scot McClintock the news of the day. With his whip he pointed to a bad turn. “Hank Monk went over the grade yesterday—coach, hawsses, and passengers.” “Much damage?” “Nope—none a-tall. Nary a beast skinned. Paint on coach hardly scratched. Busted one tenderfoot’s laig. That’s all. Mighty lucky spill. Hank always did fall on his feet. Been me I’d prob’ly a-hurted one of the animals.” “Lucky for all parties except the tenderfoot,” agreed Scot. “Yep. Couldn’t a-been better. G’lang!” The long whip snaked out with a crack like the sound of an exploding gun. The coach leaped forward, swaying like a cradle set on wheels. They were drawing close to Virginia now, and the whole desert was staked like the sole of a giant shoe. American Flat fell away to the rear. The chestnuts raced up Gold Hill and the Ophir Grade, across the divide, and down into Virginia City, which was perched on the lower slope of Mt. Davidson.