Gil Garvey was a menacing figure of a man, massive of build and sinister of face. His jet-black eyebrows met in the center of his scowling forehead, and under them gleamed eyes cold and dangerous. A thin wisp of a dark mustache contrasted with the quick gleam of his strong, white teeth. On the rare occasions when he laughed, his mirth was like the hungry snarl of a wolf.
The sprinkling of drinkers at the bar strolled over to watch the faro game, and Garvey, taking off his soiled apron, joined them, lighting a black cigar. The ruler of Lost Springs moved lightly on his feet for so heavy a man. Around his waist was a gun belt from which swung a silver-mounted .44 revolver in a beaded holster.
Suddenly a slim figure reeled through the open door, and with groping, outstretched arms, staggered forward.
"Apaches!" he choked.
Nearly every one leaped to his feet, hand on gun. Some rushed to the door for a look outside. A score of questions were fired at the newcomer.
"They're attackin' the stage at the foot of the pass!" explained the messenger.
There were sighs of relief at this bit of news, for at first they had thought that the red warriors were about to enter the town. But six miles away! That was a different matter.
"I'm Dave Robbins," the youth went on desperately. "I've got to go back there with help. When I left, they were holdin' 'em off. Fifty or sixty Indians!"
Some of the saloon customers began to murmur their sympathy. But it was evident that they were none too eager to go to the aid of the ambushed stagecoach.
Young Robbins—covered with dust, his face scratched by cactus thorns, and with an arrow still hanging from his clothing—saw the indifference in their eyes.