“Oh, hell!”
Sleepy shifted his seat and rolled a cigarette. Hashknife forgot his pains long enough to laugh. Thereafter all conversation ceased, except from the driver. Stretches of smooth road lulled the passengers to sleep, only to shock them back with lurching bumps that even drew profanity from the lips of the driver.
About twenty-five miles of the journey had been completed. The road wound down the side of a mountain, twisting around the heads of deep, heavily timbered draws and out onto moonlit points, where far below stretched the haze of Hawk Hole. Here the roadbed was more smooth and the passengers dozed.
Suddenly the driver swore viciously, shoved on the brake until the rear wheels almost skidded off the grade. Sleepy was flung off his seat, and he fell across Hashknife’s lap, colliding with the stranger.
For several moments they were confused, dazed; and when they turned to the open windows of the stage, they looked into the muzzles of two shotguns, which were plainly defined in the moonlight.
“Stay jist like yuh are,” ordered a clear voice. “We can see yuh plenty plain, gents.”
The holdup men had their backs to the moon, which flung its rays into the stage, and Sleepy knew that a motion toward his holster would invite one or both of those shotguns to send a wicked shower of lead into them.
“Lift up yore hands,” ordered the voice again, and all three men complied. “Now git out of there, one at a time.”
Sleepy came out first and lined up against the side of the stage, while behind him came the stranger. Sleepy’s holster had twisted behind him. It was difficult for Hashknife to get out, and the men swore at him for his slowness.
“He’s got rheumatism, dang yuh!” snorted Sleepy.