been
deranged. They had reckoned on the express car being rifled on the spot.
This would have given Cullison time to reach the scene of action. Mow they
would be too late. Maloney, lying snugly in the bear grass beside the
track, would not be informed as to the arrangement. Unless Curly could
stop it, the hold-up would go through according to the program of Soapy
and not of his enemies.

The decision of Flamdrau was instantaneous. He slid down beside the track
into the long grass. Whipping up one of his guns, he fired. As if in
answer to the first shot his revolver cracked twice. Simultaneously, he
let out a cry of pain, wriggled back for a dozen yards through the grass,
and crossed the track in the darkness. As he crouched down close to the
wheels of the sleeper someone came running back on the other side.

"What's up, Sam? You hit?" he could hear Blackwell whisper.

No answer came. The paroled convict was standing close to the car for fear
of being hit himself and he dared not move forward into the grass to
investigate.

"Sam," he called again; then, "He's sure got his."

That was all Curly wanted to know. Softly he padded forward, keeping as
low as he could till he reached the empty sleepers. A brakeman was just
uncoupling the express car when Curly dived underneath and nestled close
to the trucks.

From where he lay he could almost have reached out and touched Soapy
standing by the car.

"What about the kid?" Stone asked Blackwell as the latter came up.

"They got him. Didn't you hear him yelp?"

"Yes, but did they put him out of business? See his body?"

Blackwell had no intention of going back into the fire zone and making
sure. For his part he was satisfied. So he lied.

"Yep. Blew the top of his head off."

"Good," Soapy nodded. "That's a receipt in full for Mr. Luck Cullison."

The wheels began to move. Soon they were hitting only the high spots.
Curly guessed they must be doing close to sixty miles an hour. Down where
he was the dust was flying so thickly he could scarce breathe, as it
usually does on an Arizona track in the middle of summer.

Before many minutes the engine began to slow down. The wheels had hardly
stopped moving when Curly crept out, plowed through the sand, up the
rubble of a little hill, and into a draw where a bunch of scrub oaks
offered cover.

A voice from in front called to him. Just then the moon appeared from
behind drifting clouds.

"Oh, it's you, Sam. Everything