“Because I’m going to change to a more permanent business while I can. The railways are coming. The Central Pacific’s building a little every year east out of California, and as soon as the war’s over the Union Pacific will start from its end, at the Missouri. When the two roads meet, with trains running across the continent, this staging business will be knocked flat, and we messengers will be stranded. I’ve got my health now; I’m as good a man as anybody, and when I get back from Atchison I’ll go into something different. I’ve several offers pending. See?” That sounded like sense; but Dave was pleased that Mr. Baxter had not quit before this trip, for he had counted on going out in Ben’s coach. The fare from Denver to the Missouri River was up to $175, but Davy had saved this, and more. The stages left from the Planters’ Hotel. The first stage out, after the long interruption, created much excitement. At least fifty passengers clamored for places, but there was room for only nine in the body――and even they were crowded by mail sacks. Dave sat on the driver’s box with Ben and the driver, who was Bob Hodge. Everybody on the line knew Bob Hodge; he was one of the “king whips,” and very popular. The Holladay stage drivers out of the principal stations dressed the best that they could, for they were persons of consequence. Polished boots, broadcloth trousers tucked in, soft silk shirts with diamond stud, rakish hat and kid gloves were none too good for them. Bob wore a suit of buckskin――with its decorations of beads and fringes, the finest suit in Denver. As he stepped from the hotel he elegantly drew on a pair of new yellow kid gloves. He nodded to Ben and Dave, and tucked a brass horn, which was his pride, in the seat. On this horn he was accustomed to perform when he wanted amusement and when he approached stations. His other pride was his whip――of ebony handle inlaid with silver. All the Holladay stage drivers owned their whips and would not lend them. Bob climbed aboard, Ben and Dave followed. Two hostlers held the six-horse team by the bits; another handed up the lines to Bob――who condescended to receive them. “Think she’ll get through, Bob?” queried several voices, referring to the coach. “Oh, I reckon. She’s been through several times before,” drawled Bob. And by the looks of “her,” she evidently had been through something. It had been a beautiful coach, in the beginning, painted a glossy bright green, trimmed with gilt; but now it was scarred by storm and Indians. The very boot curtain behind Dave’s feet was punctured in two places by arrows, and there were other holes through the coach sides.