“Then shake them out. Let’s stir up those people in the coach and show them what riding in a Deadwood stagecoach really means,” eagerly urged Grace Harlowe.
Ike did. He gave the reins a shake and cracked the long-lashed whip that sounded to Grace like the report of a pistol.
The horses responded instantly, starting down the steep grade at a lively gallop, accompanied by encouraging yelps from Ike Fairweather.
“Thet’s the way we driv when we thought the Redskins was after us,” he called to Grace without turning his head.
Twenty seconds later the coach was rolling like a ship in a heavy sea, accompanied by a medley of shrieks and shouts of protest from the jumbled cargo of passengers inside.
“Faster! Faster, Mr. Fairweather,” urged Grace.
Ike’s yelps grew louder and closer together, and the gallop of the four-horse team became a run. About this time the occupants on the inside of the coach, having reached the limit of their endurance, registered a violent protest.
CHAPTER III
A THRILLING HALT
“HI, up there! Cut the gun!” bellowed the voice of Hippy Wingate, using an aviator’s term for shutting off the power. “Stop it, I say! You will have us all in the ditch!”