CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RACE WITH DEATH.
The young officer’s face was stern, yet calm. No nerves had he, and, although so much depended upon his work of the next few moments, he was certainly cool. His eyes only flashed, showing the excitement that bore him up.
He glanced at the pistol to see that all was right. Straight along the level the maddened horses came, the coach swaying behind them like a ship in a heavy sea. And behind it came Chief as though he hoped to do something for his imperiled master.
Dick Danforth was above the road, and, as he had pulled back his horse, the creature was fairly sliding down the steep incline, laying back on its haunches and bracing its forefeet to retard its progress.
Buffalo Bill could do nothing to help himself. Even had he been able to seize the reins at this moment and slam on the brake, he could not have brought the wild horses to a halt before the damage was [done]. It all depended upon Dick Danforth.
Far up the hill the keen eye of the [officer] descried a band of horsemen. They wore no uniforms, were not in buckskin, and were not Indians. He understood who they were at once. He knew that Buffalo Bill had been sent to his doom by the bandits of the overland trail.
“But, by thunder! we’ll fool ’em!” muttered the young officer.
Almost instantly his finger touched the trigger of the pistol, and the flash and report followed. With perfect presence of mind he had made his calculations. Did he kill one of the leaders it would throw the other horses upon him, and the stage would be wrecked after all, and Buffalo Bill doubtless killed.
Did he kill one of the wheel-horses instead it would act as a drag on the others, and still be borne along at a slackening speed, until its mate could be brought down. This he had aimed to do and—he succeeded!