Hank Eaves' broncho was tied in front of Casey's. "Tell me where to go," says Hank, "and I 'll git thar in a minnit. I 'm fixed." "No, Hank," says Jim Woppit, commanding like, "_I 'll_ go. I 'm city marshal, an' it's my place to go--I 'm the repersentive of law an' order an' I 'll enforce 'em--damn me ef I don't!" "That's bizness--Jim's head 's level!" cried Barber Sam. "Let Jim have the broncho," the rest of us counselled, and Hank had to give in, though he hated to, for he was spoiling for trouble--cussedest fellow for fighting you ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the spunky little broncho and was off like a flash. "Come on, boys," he called back to us; "come on, ez fast ez you kin to the glen!" Of course we could n't anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away--just a trifle up along the main road beyond the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the excitement of the moment and by the whooping of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a poet he always opined) that some evil might have befallen his cherished Miss Woppit--incited by these influences we made all haste. But Miss Woppit was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit's slender figure flitting to and fro behind the white curtain. She was frightened almost to death, poor girl! It appeared from the story of Steve Barclay, the stage-driver, that along about eight o'clock the stage reached the glen--a darkish, dismal spot, and the horses, tired and sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short stretch of rising ground. There were seven people in the stage: Mr. Mills, superintendent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling man (or drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners returning from a round-up at Denver. Steve Barclay was the only person outside. As the stage reached the summit of the little hill the figure of a man stole suddenly from the thicket by the roadside, stood directly in front of the leading horses, and commanded a halt. The movement was so sudden as to terrify the horses, and the consequence was that, in shying, the brutes came near tipping the coach completely over. Barclay was powerless to act, for the assailant covered him with two murderous revolvers and bade him throw up his hands.