"He sure ain't. Him drive my plugs? Him? Gee! Ther' ain't no one but me drives them hosses--not if Congress passed it a law." The harsh, familiar voice of Wild Bill grated contemptuously. He had come up from his hut all unnoticed just in time to hear Van's protesting inquiry. Now he stood with eyes only for his horses. Daylight at last shone through the mist of doubt and puzzlement which had kept the citizens of Suffering Creek in darkness so long. They looked at this lean, harsh figure and understood. Here was the driver of the stage, and, curiously, with this realization their doubts of its welfare lessened. All along they had been blaming Bill for his lack of interest in the affairs of the camp, and now-- They watched him with keen, narrowing eyes. What mad game was he contemplating? They noted his dress. It was different to that which he usually wore. His legs were encased in sheepskin chaps. He was wearing a belt about his waist from which hung a heavy pair of guns. And under his black, shiny, short coat he was wearing a simple buckskin shirt. They watched him as he moved round his horses, examining the fit of the bridles and the fastenings of the harness. He looked to the buckles of the reins. He smoothed the satin coats of his children with affectionate hand. Then in a moment they saw him spring into the cart. Taking the reins from the choreman, he settled himself into the driving-seat, while the deposed charioteer clambered stiffly to the ground. Minky was at the wheel nearest to his friend. The horses, under the master-hand, had suddenly become restive. Bill bent over, and the storekeeper craned up towards him. "Ther' was two fellers hit the trail this morning," the gambler said, with a short laugh. "I see 'em when I was with Zip--'fore daylight." "You--you best quit it," said Minky in serious, anxious tones. "We kin, maybe, hold the gold up against him here. It ain't too late. It ain't, sure." Bill's face suddenly darkened. All the lightness which the prospect before him had inspired suddenly left it. His words came so full of bitter hatred that the other was startled. "Not for a million-dollar halo!" he cried, reaching out for his long whip. With a dexterous swing he set it cracking over his horses' backs. The high-strung beasts plunged at their bits, and the leaders started to rear. Again he swung out his whip, and this time it flicked the plunging leaders. Instantly there was a rush of feet and a scrunch of wheels. The "tugs" pulled taut, and the gush of eager nostrils hissed like steam upon the still air. There was a shout of farewell from the onlookers, and the gambler turned in his seat. "So long, fellers," he cried. "I'm makin' Spawn City by daylight to-morrer--sure." The next moment he was lost in a cloud of dust, as the horses raced down the hill. CHAPTER XXX ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL