platforms ran up. The surgeon, with professional coolness, walked up to
the robbers, his instrument case under his arm.

"Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant," said he. "That practice for
Creedmoor is telling on the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too.
Bullets are better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give them plenty
of that."

Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all was over. Then he
ordered a fire lighted, and the rails relaid. The flames lit a strange
scene as the passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men to keep
them back.

"Is there a telegraph station not far ahead Sinclair?" asked he. "Yes?
All right." He drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a despatch to
the post commander.

"Be good enough to send that for me," said he "and leave orders at
Barker's for the night express eastward to stop for us, and to bring a
posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, my dear
Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on
as soon as those rails are spiked. When they realize the situation, some
of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we can't have any
lynching."

Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once to the conductor
and brakemen, who began vociferating, "All aboard!" Just then Foster
appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on his
face, in the firelight.