"D'ye carry poppin'-jays, pilgrims?" demanded Jehu, turning so
suddenly upon the two passengers as to frighten them out of their
wits.

"Popping-jays?" echoed Filmore, senior.

"Yas--shutin'-irons--rewolvers--patent perforatin' masheens."

"Yes, we are armed, if that is what you mean."

On dashed the stage through the echoing canyon--on plunged the
snorting horses, excited to greater efforts by the frequent
application of the cracking lash. The pines grew thicker, and the
moonlight less often darted its rays down athwart the road.

"Hey!" yelled a rough voice from within the stage "w'at d'ye drive so
fast fer? Ye've jonced the senses clean out uv a score o' us."

"Go to blazes!" shouts back Jehu, giving an extra crack to his whip.
"Who'n the name o' John Rodgers ar' drivin' this omnybust,
pilgrim?--you or I?"

"You'll floor a hoss ef ye don' mind sharp!"

"Who'n thunder wants ye to pay fer et, ef I do?" rings back,
tauntingly. "Reckon w'en Bill McGucken can't drive ther
thru-ter-Deadwood stage as gude as ther average, he'll suspend
bizness, or hire _you_ ter steer to his place."

On, on rumbles the stage, down through a lower grade of the canyon,