Down the coach plunged into the deep canon! Little likelihood of a
hold-up when travelling at such a pace. Down, down, safely down to the
river, running clear and cold among the rocks. And then the slow ascent.
Mat Bailey, perched on his high seat as lordly as Ph[oe]bus Apollo, felt
cold shivers run down his spine. From every bush, stump and rock he
expected a masked man to step forth. Could he depend upon Cummins and
the Chinaman? How slowly the horses labored up that fatal hill, haunted
by the ghosts of murdered travelers! Why should he, Mat Bailey, get
mixed up in other men's affairs? What was there in it for him? Of
course, he would try to play a man's part; but he sincerely wished he
were at the top of the hill.
At last they were safely out of the canon, and the horses were allowed
to rest a few minutes. Cummins replaced his pistol and buttoned up his
duster; and the passengers fell to talking. The store-keeper from North
Bloomfield began to tell a humorous story of a lone highwayman who, with
a double-barrelled shot gun waylaid the Wells Fargo Express near
Downieville. As he waited, with gun pointed down the road, he heard a
wagon approach behind him.
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