“Well, this beats my time all holler!” he said. “Judge Lynch, Jr., eh? Wal, thar’s one feller what he will never hang!”
Not many hours after the events related, the Custer City stage entered the canyon.
Already the long shadows of approaching night were falling, and Cut-throat Canyon was fast becoming the prince of places for road-agents.
The man who held the lines was eager to reach his journey’s end.
Apparently empty was the stage. If it contained a passenger he could not be seen; but there were gloomy corners in the old vehicle, large and dark enough to conceal a man.
“One mile move, an’ then—thunder an’ guns! just as I expected!” cried old Jack Drivewell.
Instinctively old Jack drew rein.
Before him, in the middle of the narrow road, stood what seemed to be an equestrian statue.
To the driver, horse and rider wore gigantic proportions, which were rendered more than half ghostly by the prevailing shadows.