The horses dashed away in fine style, enthused by the cheer of the crowd, and Dave looked happy and proud, while his companion on the box appeared to enjoy the scene immensely. The young stranger was well dressed, for he had donned what was suitable for frontier roughing it, and wore in his belt a single revolver, as a means of defense rather than for show or bravado. He had a fine face, fearless and frank, and looked like a man of refinement and education. Dave Dockery was a good reader of human nature and took to his passenger at once, being really greatly pleased with his companionship. Three-fourths of the trail had been gone over without adventure, the three stops at the relay-stations, for changes of horses and meals for passengers, having been made on time, and Last Chance was only a dozen miles away, when, as they neared a dreary-looking spot in a gorge, Dave said: "There is where poor Bud Benton passed in his chips, pard, and I tell you I don't like the spot a bit." Hardly had he uttered the words when a sharp report rang out and Dave Dockery fell back upon the coach and lay motionless, while out of the shadows spurred a horseman dressed in black and wearing a red mask. With his revolver leveled at the stranger he said sharply: "Your turn next, sir, for I am out for blood and gold." Riding on the box with Dave Dockery, the young stranger had heard much of the wild ways of the border, and had been told that it would be madness to resist a "hold-up" of a coach, unless the chances were well on the side of those attacked. When, therefore, the sharp report of a revolver had been followed by the toppling over of poor Dave, and a masked horseman rode out of the shadows of the cliff, his revolver covering him, the young man did not just know what to do. He had with him a few hundred in money, his watch, chain, and a few articles of value, with some papers of importance. That the masked horseman was alone he could not believe, and yet he had, against all traditions of the border, begun by firing upon Dave Dockery, and not ordering him to halt first. That he had fired to kill the bullet-wound in the breast, and the motionless form of the driver as he lay back upon the top of the coach, were in evidence. Now he stood the chance himself of life and death, and he awaited the ordeal with white, but calm face. The horses had stopped in their tracks, and though no other persons were visible the stranger looked for others to appear. The thought flashed across him that he must lose all he had with him, but his life he could not believe was in danger, yet why the masked road-agent had killed Dockery without mercy he could not understand. "Do you mean to take my life, man?" "That depends whether it is worth more to kill you than to let you live," was the businesslike reply.