The stage stations and the ranches looked as if they had been having a tough time. Most of the ranch buildings were in ruins and abandoned; many of the stage stations had been burned, and the station men were living in dug-outs, some of which were merely holes in the ground, roofed over with a pile of dirt loop-holed for rifles. Meals at the home stations were $1.50, cooked by the station agents’ brave wives or by the men themselves. Some of the meals were very poor, too――and some astonishingly good. All went well with the stage until between Cottonwood and Fort Kearney the driver, who was known as “Waupsie,” pointed to the south with his whip. “There they are,” he said quietly; and instantly flung out his lash. The silken snapper cracked like a pistol shot, and out launched the team. Down from a low row of sandy buttes half a mile to the south and ahead were speeding a bevy of dark dots. Davy’s heart skipped a beat. The dots were making for the trail, as if to cut off the coach. They were Indians, sure. “What’ll we do, Waupsie?” asked Ben, coolly. “Beat ’em in?” “We’ll do the best we can. Six miles to go is all,” answered Waupsie, in grim manner. And he yelled to the cavalrymen: “You’ll have to ride faster than that, boys.” The corporal in charge of the squad had spoken gruffly. Three before, three behind, the soldiers were rising and falling in their stirrups and urging on their horses. The grade was slightly down hill, and it was evident that the cavalry horses were no match for the stage team――six splendid blacks, grain fed and long-legged. Soon the coach gradually drew even with the leading soldiers and began to pass them in spite of their efforts. “Can’t wait,” yelled Waupsie, “Goodby. Fact is,” he remarked, half to himself, “I can’t hold ’em. Drat their skins!” The whoops of the Indians were plainly heard; the breeze was from the south, and as if smelling the red enemy the stage horses were wild with fear. Braced, Waupsie sawed on the lines; his foot pressed the brake hard, but he might as well have saved his strength. Waupsie had no time or opportunity to use a gun; his business was to drive. Ben cocked his shot-gun lying across his knees. “Get in the boot, Dave,” he bade. Davy started to slide under, but stopped ashamed. In a rush the Indians, whooping and frantically brandishing bows and lances, charged the trail, cutting in behind, and racing on both sides before. The cavalry squad were now far in the rear. With a thud an arrow landed full in the coach side; another quivered in the flank of the off wheel horse――and he leaped prodigiously. “Steady! Steady, boys!” besought Waupsie.