“They’re running away, and the driver’s lost his nerve!” exclaimed the cavalryman. Then he raised his voice, shouting in trumpet tones: “Put on your brake! drag hard on your lines, man, or you are lost!” The six horses, keeping their feet almost miraculously, bounded out upon the level stretch. They did not hold back in the least. They were maddened with fear now, and were headed straight for the second descent. On _that_ hill they would quickly come to grief. No power could save them. Again the astonished cavalryman yelled his warning to the man on the driver’s seat of the coach. His words seemed to reach the man’s ears. He made no move to seize the lines or retard the mad course of the horses, but in clarion tones came back the answer: “I am bound! I cannot stop them! Shoot!” Perhaps the involuntary passenger on the doomed stage-coach meant for the young man to shoot _him_ and so let him escape a more awful death. But no such intention had the lieutenant. The coach was coming toward him rapidly, and he obtained a clearer view of the bound man. “Buffalo Bill, by the nine gods of war!” he shouted suddenly, recognizing his friend. “What in Heaven’s name does this mean?” There was nobody to answer the query; but he saw that the man was indeed bound to his seat, and that the reins were loosely swinging, bound to the lantern. The brake was not on at all! At this discovery the lieutenant sank his spurs into the flanks of his thoroughbred, and, with a wild snort of pain and anger, the horse leaped down the sharp declivity toward the piece of rough, but level roadway, over which the coach must come. Yet half-way down the incline the lieutenant was smitten with a sudden thought, and he pulled hard on the bit. The thoroughbred lay back on his haunches and slid. The rider seized one of his guns and cocked the weapon. “Now, Dick Danforth, prove your fame as a dead shot,” he muttered. “For if ever true marksmanship was needed, it is now to save yonder brave man from death!” CHAPTER XVIII. THE RACE WITH DEATH. The young officer’s face was stern, yet calm. No nerves had he, and, although so much depended upon his work of the next few moments, he was certainly cool. His eyes only flashed, showing the excitement that bore him up. He glanced at the pistol to see that all was right. Straight along the level the maddened horses came, the coach swaying behind them like a ship in a heavy sea. And behind it came Chief as though he hoped to do something for his imperiled master. Dick Danforth was above the road, and, as he had pulled back his horse, the creature was fairly sliding down the steep incline, laying back on its haunches and bracing its forefeet to retard its progress. Buffalo Bill could do nothing to help himself. Even had he been able to seize the reins at this moment and slam on the brake, he could not have brought the wild horses to a halt before the damage was done. It all depended upon Dick Danforth.