“As I was sayin’, thar ain’t no need fer ary gent hyer what is wantin’ to travel over this trail to-day to be afeard o’ Tim Benson. I know he’s a rantakerous gun man, what shoots first and does his explainin’ about it later; and that he has conducted more hold-ups than ary man whatever was in this town; but he’s got sense. He don’t hold up no stage when thar’s nothin’ to be gained by it. To-day I ain’t kerryin’ no gold dust, ner treasure o’ any kind--- ’ceptin’ the lady, gents, o’ course!--so, I know he won’t bother me. He allus knows when treasure is goin’ out, an’ when it ain’t; an’ he was never knowed to come fer an empty stage. How he knows when it kerries treasure I reckon is _his_ business. So--who’s goin’ over the trail with me ter-day?” When nobody else showed a desire to accompany him, Hank Elmore climbed to his high seat, swung his long lash, yelled at the horses; and the stage bounced and jolted away over the cobblestone street, into the Calumet Wells trail. “It’s gittin’ so that women have sure got more sand than the men!” was his mental comment, as he thought of his female passenger. “But I wonder why she’s pikin’ out of Blossom Range?” The man who had entered the stage was apparently thinking the same thing; for he began to question her. “I’ve seen you at the Casino,” he said, his tone one of flattery. “Good show they’ve got there! I understood that you was to stay another week.” She had lifted her veil after entering the stage, and now gave him a close look. “I don’t think I know you!” she said, as if that were a sufficient answer. She observed that he was a small man, with a face clean shaven, and a quiet, even unassuming, manner. “Oh, I reckon it ain’t any of my business,” he admitted, “if you put it that way. It’s no loss, if you don’t know me. But I’ve seen you a number of times. I s’pose you’re on your way to Calumet Wells?” “Yes,” she said, but indifferently. “And beyond that, of course; for that ain’t no proper stopping place.” “Yes, I’m going beyond there.” “To ’Frisco?” “Perhaps.” She drew back into her corner of the stage. But she found it hard to stay there, for the pitching vehicle now and then projected her out of it, once almost into the arms of the man before her. “I--I beg your pardon!” she cried. “Don’t mention it.” He laughed. “’Tain’t the first time I’ve had a lady throw herself at my head.” “It’s a poor joke!” she declared. But she laughed, too. He began to talk to her again, then; and presently began once more to ask questions. “What you got in that big hand bag?” he queried. “What should I have in it? My clothing, of course.” Suddenly the expression of his face changed, and she knew him--knew that this little man was Tim Benson himself--Benson, the terrible desperado and road agent; and she knew she had nothing to expect from him in the way of favors.