“Another boy? Aren't you doing the washing?”
“No do. Me—” but Jo had gone to the back yard. She found the tallest Chinaman she had ever seen, meekly bending to the washing, and quickly obeying the sharp orders rained upon his queue-circled poll by Hop Sing.
“But—Sing,” protested Jo, stifling any sort of smile.
“Him no good! No got place! Me pay one-dollar-hop him stop one month, Chinee house. He no pay. Me makem work.”
“Yes, but—what is that? Those are shots on the stage road over the hill! Oh, it must be another holdup! And Rand is shotgun messenger on the stage today. Hark! Hear the horses running! They're coming—fast. They're trying to make the town!”
“Ketchem, more horse run behind,” answered Sing, listening intently, his slanting eyes glittering.
“Sing, you go and see what—”
“Can do! You get that boy, make 'em wash, alle same. He no good! You look see?” Joe turned to spy the frightened deputy washerman wriggling under the verandah. “Bime-by I kill 'um,” remarked Sing, composedly. “No got time now. Missie Jo, wagon come, maybeso better you stop house-o.”
Six horses topped the long hill, pulling the huge rockaway stage. They were coming at full speed, and the near wheeler was dripping with blood. A dead man hung over the high dashboard, where his feet had caught when he fell.
Leaning far out over the team was a young man holding the reins in one hand, while he lashed the shot-crazed horses to their last ounce of speed with the fifteen-foot whip. His sawed-off shotgun lay on the seat beside him. It was Rand!