Free Star Toter by Al Cody Page B

mean?"
    "This is my last trip driving stage," Foley explained. "Then I'm going back to Nebraska. Got me a girl at Scott's Bluff. That's what took me so long when I come through that way. Ever see that big bluff, risin' up there like a fool hen that don't know enough to duck?"
    "I've never been that way."
    "Some bluff. Wide an' solid, like a bull between the horns. I'm going to admire it more'n usual when I see it again. My gal's pa runs a blacksmith shop, and I'll be working with him. That's the way she wants it. There's no hills to speak of, nor dug roads twistin' a mile above nothin' but scenery, but I'm a pretty fair hand at fittin' a shoe to a filly's foot. Only, like I say, I mislike pullin' out from here just as you get back. We used to have us some times together."
    He relapsed into silence, for a man tooling a stage along those roads needed to be watchful as well as skillful.
    And these were the real Wild Buttes, from which the country had taken its name. The few comparatively level stretches of country, which led off to the ranches lying to the west, were behind them. Queasy Creak had wandered off there and then swung guiltily back, and, as though it had some secret to conceal, was trying to lose itself in the hills, while the road climbed and twisted far above.
    The breath of pine came from below as well as above, and a waterfall, fed jointly by a spring and melting glaciers, took off at the side in a wild leap. It plunged and broke before gathering itself to hurry to a breathless junction with the creek. Highpoint was miles behind, and save for the road, there was no other sign that man had ever penetrated that wilderness.
    It was only a few more miles to a mountain meadow and a long log station, where a fresh team would be hooked into the traces. The dull rumble of Queasy came up from a gorge, where it fought its way along a course studded by boulders. Then racing into the sun, it rioted across a deep meadow.
    A deer watched from a point above the road. In the still air at the side a hawk floated, high above the valley floor, but below them.
    "Sure going to miss this," Foley called. "I plumb hate drivin' a road like this, but it gets in your blood. Oh, well, sometimes I can climb the bluff and call it a hill."
    They were among the trees; lodge-pole pines grew close on either side of the road. The dizzy depths were shut away as they rounded a turn. Ted Foley kicked on the brake and swung his weight on the reins.
    It was not a matter of choice. A log was across the road, felled deliberately, as fresh ax strokes indicated. One end was elevated into the crotch of another half-fallen tree, forming a solid barrier.
    The treetops united to shut away most of the light. There was scant undergrowth. Wide reaches of forest aisles were carpeted with brown needles, and Locke knew that the other wagon had not come that way. Probably it had taken a side road.
    But men had raised the barrier, watching in confidence for the coming of the stage, and now they were ready for it. A pair stepped from behind trees as the stage stopped with squealing brakes. One raised a rifle to cover the man on the box. That was a normal precaution.
    But he did not stop with that. Even as the gun came up and the black muzzle centered, it seemed to split in a roll of lancing flame. The splitting was an illusion, caused by the shadows under the trees, but the thunder and the hurtling lead were no fancy.
    A look of hurt, followed by incredulity and unbelief, spread across the face of Ted Foley. With both hands on the reins, he had been too busy, stopping and controlling the team, to do anything else, even had he been so inclined. There had been no false move, but that had made no difference.
    A red gash started at his chin and spread upward, like the slash of an axe, almost splitting his face. Foley pitched drunkenly, his fingers losing their clasp on the reins. He struck the rump of the left wheeler and bounced, while the horses, started nervously. Then