where no moonlight penetrates, and all is of Stygian darkness.

The two passengers on top of the stage shiver with dread, and even old
Bill McGucken peers around him, a trifle suspiciously.

It is a wild spot, with the mountains rising on each side of the road
to a stupendous hight, the towering pines moaning their sad, eternal
requiem; the roar of the great wheels over the hardpan bottom; the
snorting of the fractious lead-horses; the curses and the cracking of
Jehu's whip; the ring of iron-shod hoofs--it is a place and moment
conducive to fear, mute wonder, admiration.

"_Halt!_"

High above all other sounds now rings this cry, borne toward the
advancing stage from the impenetrable space of gloom ahead, brought
down in clear commanding tone whereto there is neither fear nor
hesitation.

That one word has marvelous effect. It brings a gripe of iron into the
hands of Jehu, and he jerks his snorting steeds back upon their
haunches; it is instrumental in stopping the stage. (Who ever knew a
Black Hills driver to offer to press on when challenged to halt to a
wild dismal place?)

It sends a thrill of lonely horror through the vein of those to whose
ears the cry is borne; it causes hands to fly to the butts of weapons,
and hearts to beat faster.

"Halt!" Again the cry rings forth, reverberating in a hundred