Tears are properly a woman's weapon, and when a man makes use of them, even in spite of himself, he is taking an advantage over the other sex which is unfair and outrageous. Lieutenant Ranson never knew the mischief the sympathy he had shown for his enemy caused in the heart of Mary Cahill, nor that from that moment she loved him deeply. The West Point graduates before they answered Ranson's ultimatum smoked their cigarettes for some time in silence. “Oh, there's been fighting even at Fort Crockett,” said Crosby. “In the last two years the men have been ordered out seven times, haven't they, Miss Cahill? When the Indians got out of hand, and twice after cowboys, and twice after the Red Rider.” “The Red Rider!” protested Ranson; “I don't see anything exciting in rounding up one miserable horse thief.” “Only they don't round him up,” returned Curtis crossly. “That's why it's exciting. He's the best in his business. He's held up the stage six times now in a year. Whoever the fellow is, if he's one man or a gang of men, he's the nerviest road-agent since the days of Abe Case.” Ranson in his then present mood was inclined toward pessimism. “It doesn't take any nerve to hold up a coach,” he contradicted. Curtis and Crosby snorted in chorus. “That's what you say,” mocked Curtis. “Well, it doesn't,” repeated Ranson. “It's all a game of bluff. The etiquette is that the driver mustn't shoot the road-agent, and that the road-agent mustn't hurt the driver, and the passengers are too scared to move. The moment they see a man rise out of the night they throw up their hands. Why, even when a passenger does try to pull his gun the others won't let him. Each thinks sure that if there's any firing he will be the one to get hurt. And, besides, they don't know how many more men the road agent may have behind him. I don't---” A movement on the part of Miss Cahill caused him to pause abruptly. Miss Cahill had descended from her throne and was advancing to meet the post-trader, who came toward her from the exchange. “Lightfoot's squaw,” he said. “Her baby's worse. She's sent for you.” Miss Cahill gave a gasp of sympathy, snatched up her hat from the counter, and the buffalo robes closed behind her. Ranson stooped and reached for his sombrero. With the flight of Miss Cahill his interest in the courage of the Red Rider had departed also. But Crosby appealed to the new-comer, “Cahill, YOU know,” he said. “We've been talking of the man they call the Red Rider, the chap that wears a red bandanna over his face. Ranson says he hasn't any nerve. That's not so, is it?” “I said it didn't take any nerve to hold up a stage,” said Ranson; “and it doesn't.” The post-trader halted on his way back to the exchange and rubbed one hand meditatively over the other arm. With him speech was golden and difficult. After a pause he said: “Oh, he takes his chances.”