their low-voiced talk came to Collins.

"Only thirty thousand in the express-car. Not a red cent on the
old man himself."

"Where's the rest?" The irritation in the newcomer's voice was
pronounced.

Collins slewed his head and raked him with keen eyes that missed
not a detail. He was certain that he had never seen the man
before, yet he knew at once that the trim, wiry figure, so clean
of build and so gallant of bearing, could belong only to Wolf
Leroy, the most ruthless outlaw of the Southwest. It was written
in his jaunty insolence, in the flashing eyes. He was a handsome
fellow, white-toothed, black-haired, lithely tigerish, with
masterful mouth and eyes of steel, so far as one might judge
behind the white mask he wore. Alert, cruel, fearless from the
head to the heel of him, he looked the very devil to lead an
enterprise so lawless and so desperate as this. 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.