The man who had handled the box was carrying a revolver in one hand, and now he came back to those who were watching the passengers. The men were all masked. The man with the revolver looked at the passengers closely. Suddenly, and with apparently no reason, he threw up his revolver and fired point-blank at the stranger. The action was so sudden, so uncalled for, that Hashknife and Sleepy instinctively ducked. “Stand still, damn yuh!” roared one of the shotgun men. The stranger went to his knees, groped blindly for a moment, and sprawled on his face. For several moments not a sound was heard. Then the man who fired the shot shoved his gun back into his holster. “The damn fool reached for a gun,” he said slowly. “Shove the rest of ’em back into the stage.” Hashknife turned and climbed back inside, while one man picked up the strongbox and walked around the team. Sleepy got inside, menaced by those two guns, and sat down. The two men turned and started around the team, while Sleepy swore softly, swung his belt around, and jerked out his gun. “Take it easy, pardner,” cautioned Hashknife. “They never hurt us.” “They killed that poor devil,” replied Sleepy angrily. “He never tried to pull a gun, Hashknife.” Sleepy stepped outside, gun in hand, but the men had disappeared. The driver was starting to get down. “Held up, I’m a son of a gun!” he snorted, as he almost fell off the hub. Sleepy knelt down and examined the stranger. He was breathing heavily, painfully, and was unconscious. “Well, he ain’t dead,” declared Sleepy. “How far is it to town, driver?” “’Bout five-six mile. I’m never held up before, I’m a son of a gun!” “Put him in here,” ordered Hashknife. Sleepy and the driver lifted the wounded man inside and eased him into a seat. He was as limp as a rag, so Sleepy sat beside him, holding him upright. “Drive as fast as yuh can,” ordered Hashknife. “This man needs a doctor right now.” “You bet you,” agreed the driver. “I’ll go like hell.” He was as good as his word. Hashknife and Sleepy were not at all faint-hearted, but that driver brought prayers to their lips before the running team reached the bottom of Hawk Hole. In fact he had caused Hashknife to forget his rheumatism. “How are yuh standin’ it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy. “He either scared or bumped it all out of me,” replied Hashknife. “I’ll betcha. There’s some things that even rheumatism won’t stand for, I reckon. We ought to be close to town. That driver said five or six miles, and we fell that far.” In a few minutes they drove into the sleeping town of Pinnacle and stopped in front of a stage station. Daylight was flooding the hill now. A sleepy-eyed individual opened the door of the stage office and came out to them. Across the street glowed the dim light of an oil lamp over a poker game.