Thereafter, no matter what
else engaged his attention, the gleaming eyes behind the red
bandanna never wandered for a moment from the big plainsman. He
was taking no risks, for he remembered the saying current in
Arizona, that after Collins' hardware got into action there was
nothing left to do but plant the deceased and collect the
insurance. He had personal reasons to know the fundamental
accuracy of the colloquialism.
The train-conductor fussed up to the masked outlaw with a
ludicrous attempt at authority. "You can't rob the passengers on
this train. I'm not responsible for the express-car, but the
coaches--"
A bullet almost grazed his ear and shattered a window on its way
to the desert.
"Drift, you red-haired son of a Mexican?" ordered the man behind
the red bandanna. "Git back to that seat real prompt. This here's
taxation without representation."
The conductor drifted as per suggestion.
The minutes ticked themselves away in a tense strain marked by
pounding hearts. The outlaw stood at the end of the aisle,
watching the sheriff alertly.
"Why doesn't the music begin?" volunteered Collins, by way of
conversation, and quoted: "On with the dance.
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