the scene of an averted
train wreck he had once inadvertently seen in a motion picture--if the
girl had been Consuello, dressed, say, in a neat and dashing riding
habit or some other altogether inappropriate costume.

A fat, white-haired man--typical bank president, John thought--wrote out
a check, using the cowcatcher for a desk, and handed it to Gibson with a
bow.

John, standing near them, saw the check was for $5,000.

"I cannot accept this for myself, sir," Gibson said. "I am a police
commissioner of the city of Los Angeles and if you will permit me to
make such disposition of it I will turn it over to some well deserving
charity."

"It's yours--do what you want with it," the fat man said. As he walked
away John thought that he was fully pleased with himself for having
given Gibson the check, that he had paid the man who had saved his life
in dollars and cents and what more could he do?

"Somebody give me a cigarette," he heard a voice plead and, turning, he
found himself face to face with Brennan.

"Quick, someone, that man has a weapon!" a woman shrieked.

John saw Brennan's automatic protruding from his coat pocket. Brennan,
who was talking to Gibson, did not notice him take the pistol from him.

"How did it happen, Mr. Commissioner?" Brennan asked.

"Come along, I'll tell you as we ride back to the city," promised
Gibson, who shook the hands thrust out in the path that was opened for
him as he walked through the crowd toward the road and the waiting
automobiles.

Returning to the city, Gibson told his story. "Red Mike," he said, did
not become suspicious until a second or so before the engineer applied
the brakes to the train and then his suspicion seemed born of instinct.
At the first sound of the screeching brakes, he said "Red Mike" shot at
him and he fired back.

"I was lucky--my first shot got him," Gibson said. "He went down, but he
continued firing. He was shooting wild and I wasn't half as afraid of
his shots as those my men were raining down from the sides of the hill.

"I hope," he said, with a touch of regret, "that 'Red Mike' doesn't die.
He's a bad one, as bad as they come, and should be put some place where
he can't do harm. I hope, though, that he recovers."

"He hasn't much to live for," Brennan put in.

"No," said Gibson. "He told me that he had been blacklisted by the
railroads because he was an I. W. W. Revenge was as much a part of his
motive in attempting to wreck the 'Lark