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 hate to be messing the job like you--holding up the
wrong train by mistake.
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