Bucky OConnor | Page 8

a pair of dice. Here, Fatty. Load up with quinine and
whisky. It's sure good for chills." The man behind the bandanna gravely
handed his victim back a dollar. "Write me if it cures you. Now for the
sky-pilot. No white chips on this plate, parson. It's a contribution to the
needy heathen. You want to be generous. How much do you say?
The man of the cloth reluctantly said thirty dollars, a Lincoln penny,
and a silver-plated watch inherited from his fathers. The watch was
declined with thanks, the money accepted without.
The Pullman porter came into the car under compulsion of a revolver in
the hand of a fourth outlaw, one in a black mask. His trembling finger
pointed out the satchel and suit-case of Major Mackenzie, and under
orders he carried out the baggage belonging to the irrigation engineer.
Collin observed that the bandit in the black mask was so nervous that
the revolver in his hand quivered like an aspen in the wind. He was
slenderer and much shorter than the Mexican, so that the sheriff
decided he was a mere boy.
It was just after he had left that three shots in rapid succession rang out
in the still night air.
The red-bandannaed one and his companion, who had apparently been
waiting for the signal, retreated backward to the end of the car, still
keeping the passengers covered. They flung rapidly two or three bullets
through the roof, and under cover of the smoke slipped out into the
night. A moment later came the thud of galloping horses, more shots,
and, when the patter of hoofs had died away--silence.

The sheriff was the first to break it. He thrust his brown hands deep
into his pockets and laughed--laughed with the joyous, rollicking
abandon of a tickled schoolboy.
"Hysterics?" ventured the mining engineer sympathetically.
Collins wiped his eyes. "Call 'em anything you like. What pleases me is
that the reverend gentleman should have had this diverting experience
so prompt after he was wishing for it." He turned, with concern, to the
clergyman. "Satisfied, sir? Did our little entertainment please, or wasn't
it up to the mark?"
But the transported native of Pekin was game. "I'm quite satisfied, if
you are. I think the affair cost you a hundred dollars or so more than it
did me."
"That's right," agreed the sheriff heartily. "But I don't grudge it--not a
cent of it. The show was worth the price of admission."
The car conductor had a broadside ready for him. "Seems to me you
shot off your mouth more than you did that big gun of yours, Mr.
Sheriff."
Collins laughed, and clapped him on the back. "That's right. I'm a
regular phonograph, when you wind me up." He did not think it
necessary to explain that he had talked to make the outlaws talk, and
that he had noted the quality of their voices so carefully that he would
know them again among a thousand. Also he had observed--other
things--the garb of each of the men he had seen, their weapons, their
manner, and their individual peculiarities.
The clanking car took up the rhythm of the rails as the delayed train
plunged forward once more into the night. Again the clack of tongues,
set free from fear, buzzed eagerly. The glow of the afterclap of danger
was on them, and in the warm excitement each forgot the paralyzing
fear that had but now padlocked his lips. Courage came flowing back
into flabby cheeks and red blood into hearts of water.

At the next station the Limited stopped, and the conductor swung from
a car before the wheels had ceased rolling and went running into the
telegraph office.
"Fire a message through for me, Pat. The Limited has been held up," he
announced.
"Held up?" gasped the operator.
"That's right. Get this message right through to Sabin. I'm not going to
wait for an answer. Tell him I'll stop at Apache for further
instructions."
With which the conductor was out again waving his lantern as a signal
for the train to start. Sheriff Collins and Major Mackenzie had entered
the office at his heels. They too had messages to send, but it was not
until the train was already plunging into the night that the station agent
read the yellow slips they had left and observed that both of them went
to the same person.
"Lieutenant Bucky O'Connor, Douglas, Arizona," was the address he
read at the top of each. His comment serves to show the opinion
generally in the sunburned territory respecting one of its citizens.
"You're wise guys, gents, both of yez. This is shure a case for the
leftenant. It's send for Bucky quick when the band begins to play," he
grinned.
Sitting down, he gave the