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was prayin’…which maybe I was, I reckon…and right afore I pulled the trigger, we run over a rock ’bout the size of Denver City. My Enfield roared, but I knowed I’d missed. Knowed I hadn’t even scairt that Apache, and I was bouncin’ all the way to Bruce’s side of the Concord, cussin’ Sam Golden for all he was worth, half figgerin’ that the coach would turn over after a jolt like that, that the mules would break their traces and we’d crash.
    “Sam, you fool! We can’t shoot nothin’ with you drivin’ like that!”
    He didn’t answer. Bruce chanced a couple of shots from his Navies, then ducked. Mr. Giddings fired, too. That thick white smoke burned my eyes, which has always been prone to irritation with my condition, you see.
    I cussed, took back my position, and drawed one of my Navy Thirty-Sixes. We hit another rock or hole or somethin’, and I jammed my hand against the door frame, like to have busted my wrist, come close to leavin’ that Navy in the dust for one of ’em chargin’ Injuns to pick up. I cussed Sam Golden again, cussed him loud and hard and proper. That’s when I realized I didn’t hear that poppin’ no more. Didn’t hear the Mex shootin’, neither. Didn’t hear nothin’ from up top. Smelt smoke is all, smoke and dust and the stink of our own sweat, ’cause we was sweatin’ heaps.
    “Sam?” I hollered. “Sam Golden, you ain’t dead, are you?” When he didn’t reply, I called out the Mex’s name, and Mr. Giddings took up the query, too.
    “Valdez? Golden? Answer us. Do you need assistance?”
    The answer we got was another bone-bustin’ bump.
    “Only assistance they need,” I said underneath my breath, “is a merciful Lord.”
    Well, I shoved the Navy in my sash, and, riskin’ my head and hair, I stuck myself out of the window. Heard a bullet whistle by. Then an arrow thudded in the Concord door, slicin’ my britches, and blood trickled down my thigh. But I had me a good grip on the rail up above, and pulled myself up. Hat blowed off. Wonder it’d stayed on my head this long, and ’em Apaches went to whoopin’ and hollerin’ like happy devils when they seen my white locks. Figured that would make a mighty good trophy hangin’ from one of their acoustics. Then I grabbed another hold, pulled myself up higher, put my boots on the door.
    When we bounced again, well, that was almost the death of Whitey Grey.
    “Hang on!” Mr. Giddings called, but I didn’t need no encouragin’. With a final lunge, I was atop the Concord.
    “Mister Grey?” I heard the boss man call out. “Are you all right?”
    “Yeah!” I snapped. Dust and dirt stung my eyes, and I crawled and rolled, more like fell, off the top into the driver’s box.
    “How are Valdez and Golden?”
    “Dead!” I answered, leg startin’ to pain me, and tried to find the reins.
    Only, they wasn’t there. No reins. No Mex. No Sam Golden.
    The Mex and jehu, I figgered, had gotten ’emselves kilt, shot offen the coach. The reins was danglin’ down amongst the harnesses, traces, tree, and Overland road. Then I seen a big buck of a Cherry Cow, standin’ on a rock, ’bout to shoot me dead, but I whipped out one of my Navy Colts and blasted that cur. Saw the blood just a-spurtin’ from his breast as he flung back into the cactus.
    Arrows and bullets was flyin’ ever’where, and ’em mules was runnin’ for their lives. Reckon they knowed that Apaches fancy mule meat. Sweeter it is than venison or beefsteak. Likes it my ownself. Me, I was tryin’ to figger out just how I could gets control of the team. Well, then I spotted the rock. Big one. Big! And I knowed we was all goners.
    I was jumpin’ afore we hit, hopin’ that with luck I’d just break my neck and not get caught alive by ’em Cherry Cows. Landed hard, and heard the crashin’, the screamin’ of the mules, figgered Bruce and Mr. Giddings was dead, too. My lip was busted, had lost two good teeth, and I knowed my right ankle was