k-haired,
lithely tigerish, with masterful mouth and eyes of steel, so far as one
might judge behind the white mask he wore. Alert, cruel, fearless
from the head to the heel of him, he looked the very devil to lead an
enterprise so lawless and so desperate as this. His vigilant eyes swept
contemptuously up and down the car, rested for a moment on the young
woman in Section 3, and came back to his partner.

"Bah! A flock of sheep--tamest bunch of spring lambs we ever struck.
I'll send Scott in to go through them. If anybody gets gay, drop him."
And the outlaw turned on his heel.

Another of the highwaymen took his place, a stout, squat figure in the
flannel shirt, spurs, and chaps of a cow-puncher. It took no second
glance to tell Collins this bandy-legged fellow had been a rider of the
range.

"Come, gentlemen, get a move on you," Collins implored. "This train's
due at Tucson by eight o'clock. We're more than an hour late now. I'm
holding down the job of sheriff in that same town, and I'm awful anxious
to get a posse out after a bunch of train-robbers. So burn the wind, and
go through the car on the jump. Help yourself to anything you find. Who
steals my purse takes trash. 'Tis something, nothing. 'Twas mine; 'tis
his. That's right, you'll find my roll in that left-hand pocket. I hate
to have you take that gun, though. I meant to run you down with that
same old Colt's reliable. Oh, well, just as you say. No, those kids get
a free pass. They're going out to meet papa at Los Angeles, boys. See?"

Collins' running fire of comment had at least the effect of restoring
the color to some cheeks that had been washed white and of snatching
from the outlaws some portion of their sense of dominating the
situation. But there was a veiled vigilance in his eyes that belied his
easy impudence.

"That lady across the aisle gets a pass, too, boys," continued the
sheriff. "She's scared stiff now, and you won't bother her, if you're
white men. Her watch and purse are on the seat. Take them, if you want
them, and let it go at that."

Miss Wainwright listened to this dialogue silently. She stood before
them cool and imperious and unwavering, but her face was bloodless and
the pulse in her beautiful soft throat fluttered like a caged bird.

"Who's doing this job?" demanded one of the hold-ups, wheeling savagely
on the impassive officer "Did I say we were going to bother the lady?
Who's doing this job, Mr. Sheriff?"

"You are. I'd h