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.
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