“Of course he does,” cried Crosby, encouragingly. “He takes the chance of being shot by the passengers, and of being caught by the posse and lynched, but this man's got away with it now six times in the last year. And I say that takes nerve.” “Why, for fifty dollars---” laughed Ranson. He checked himself, and glanced over his shoulder at the retreating figure of Cahill. The buffalo robes fell again, and the spurs of the post-trader could be heard jangling over the earth-floor of the exchange. “For fifty dollars,” repeated Ranson, in brisk, businesslike tones, “I'll rob the up stage to-night myself!” Previous knowledge of his moods, the sudden look of mischief in his eyes and a certain vibration in his voice caused the two lieutenants to jump simultaneously to their feet. “Ranson!” they shouted. Ranson laughed mockingly. “Oh, I'm bored to death,” he cried. “What will you bet I don't?” He had risen with them, but, without waiting for their answer, ran to where his horse stood at the open door. He sank on his knees and began tugging violently at the stirrup-straps. The two officers, their eyes filled with concern, pursued him across the room. With Cahill twenty feet away, they dared not raise their voices, but in pantomime they beckoned him vigorously to return. Ranson came at once, flushed and smiling, holding a hooded army-stirrup in each hand. “Never do to have them see these!” he said. He threw the stirrups from him, behind the row of hogsheads. “I'll ride in the stirrup-straps!” He still spoke in the same low, brisk tone. Crosby seized him savagely by the arm. “No, you won't!” he hissed. “Look here, Ranson. Listen to me; for Heaven's sake don't be an ass! They'll shoot you, you'll be killed---” --“And court-martialed,” panted Curtis. “You'll go to Leavenworth for the rest of your life!” Ranson threw off the detaining hand, and ran behind the counter. From a lower shelf he snatched a red bandanna kerchief. From another he dragged a rubber poncho, and buttoned it high about his throat. He picked up the steel shears which lay upon the counter, and snipping two holes in the red kerchief, stuck it under the brim of his sombrero. It fell before his face like a curtain. From his neck to his knees the poncho concealed his figure. All that was visible of him was his eyes, laughing through the holes in the red mask. “Behold the Red Rider!” he groaned. “Hold up your hands!” He pulled the kerchief from his face and threw the poncho over his arm. “Do you see these shears?” he whispered. “I'm going to hold up the stage with 'em. No one ever fires at a road agent. They just shout, 'Don't shoot, colonel, and I'll come down.' I'm going to bring 'em down with these shears.” Crosby caught Curtis by the arm, laughing eagerly. “Come to the stables, quick,” he cried. “We'll get twenty troopers after him before he can go a half mile.” He turned on Ranson with a triumphant chuckle. “You'll not be dismissed this regiment, if I can help it,” he cried.