their time quite so assiduously to the entertainment of their
sisters. He could not stare at her forever, and so he gave over
his speculations and went back to the prairies.

Another hour, and Thurston was stiffing a yawn when the coaches
bumped sharply together and, with wheels screeching protest as
the brakes clutched them, the train, grinding protest in every
joint, came, with a final heavy jar, to a dead stop. Thurston
thought it was a wreck, until out ahead came the sharp crackling
of rifles. A passenger behind him leaned out of the window and
a bullet shattered the glass above his head; he drew back
hastily.

Some one hurried through the front vestibule, the door was
pushed unceremoniously open and a man--a giant, he seemed to
Thurston--stopped just inside, glared down the length of the
coach through slits in the black cloth over his face and bawled,
"Hands up!"

Thurston was so utterly surprised that his hands jerked
themselves involuntarily above his head, though he did not feel
particularly frightened; he was filled with a stupefied sort of
curiosity to know what would come next. The coach, so far as he
could see, seemed filled with uplifted, trembling hands, so that
he did not feel ashamed of his own. The man behind him put up
his hands with the other-- but one of them held a revolver that
barked savagely and unexpectedly close against the car of
Thurston. Thurston ducked. There was an echo from the front,
and the man behind, who risked so much on one shot, lurched into
the aisle, swaying uncertainly between the seats. He of the