"You must have hit one of them."
"I tried to. I think another felt the sting of a bullet, from the way he flung himself about."
"Are you hurt?"
"A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt."
An examination of Baldwin's arm proved that the scratch was not serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a soldier. We went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance leaders.
"There's something down there in the road by Ferrin's grave, sir," said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."
"Is this where Ferrin was killed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; I came here with a detail to look him up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder and kept the redskins off four days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of them; but they got him at last. They scattered the mail in shreds along the road for miles."
"Who was Ferrin?" Frank asked.
"He was a discharged California volunteer who rode the express before Mr. Baldwin."