The stage was already descending and the driver could not stop it, although he laid himself back on the reins in the attempt. The sheriff regarded him in amazement. Was he gone crazy? When almost opposite, he let out a whoop and, running out on the pole, cut at the team with his whip. They went by at a gallop in a cloud of sand. Lafe caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver's white face and wavering eyes. Then their mount was seized of the devil; down went his head and he pitched as only a mule can. Moffatt went off at the first jump; at the third, Lafe scattered the waters of the wallow.
The opposite ascent was of soft sand, and before they reached the top, fatigue compelled the stage team to drop to a walk. The driver looked back, apprehension showing even in the bend of his neck. The gray mule had disappeared. Seeing Johnson on foot, helping Moffatt from the ground, the man threw on the brake and the stage came to a halt. The sheriff toiled painfully up the hill, holding the suffering outlaw around the waist.
"Here," said the driver in a dry voice. "Get in. Get in."
Together they lifted Steve in. The driver released the brakes and whipped his mules to a gallop.
"I swan. I swan," he kept repeating.
"Why the hell didn't you stop? Hey? What do you mean by running by that way?" said the sheriff angrily.
"Runnin' by? Runnin'—why, man alive," croaked the driver, "that doggone ol' mule you rode used to pull this stage. And he's been daid over a year."