"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. 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.