Seth Tully, one of the grizzled, leathery old-timers, hobbled out of a small, crumbling adobe building. It was evident that he was much excited about something and eager to have someone to talk to.
“Howdy, folks,” he began in his high, uncertain, falsetto voice, “I reckon as you-all heerd how a freight train was held up last night over in Dead Hoss Gulch.” Then, seeing the boys’ amazement and the girls’ dismay, he went on exultingly, “Yes, siree! Thar was bags of rich ore in one o’ them cars—the hindmost one, an’, time take it, if them thar bandits wa’n’t wise to it. The train allays goes durn slow along that steep grade climbing up out o’ the gulch. Well, sir, what did them bandits do?” The old man was becoming dramatic in his delight at having such thrilled listeners. “Dum blast it, if a parcel of ’em didn’t hold up the engineer and another parcel of ’em cut loose that hind car. Crash it went back’ards down that thar grade, jumped the track and smashed to smithers.”
“Oh, Mr. Tully,” Mary cried, “was anyone killed?”
The old man shook his head. “Nope, the guard wa’n’t kilt, but them bandits reckoned as how he was, ’totherwise they’d have plugged him. He come to, but they’d cleared out, the whule pack of ’em, an’ they’d tuk the ore with ’em.”
Dora, watching the old man’s glittering, pale-blue eyes that were deep-sunken under shaggy brows, thought that he seemed actually pleased about it all, nor was she wrong as his next remark showed.
“Say, Jerry-kid, that thar holdup smacks o’ old times. It was gettin’ too gol-darned quiet around these here parts. Needed suthin’ like this to sort o’ liven us up.” He ended with a cackling laugh that made Mary shudder.
When they were again rattling along the lonely, rutty road which led to Tombstone, the nearest town of any size, Mary, nestling close to Jerry, asked, “Big Brother, is Dead Horse Gulch near here?”
“No, Little Sister, it isn’t, and, as for the bandits, they’re over the border in Mexico by now, I reckon. Don’t you go to worrying about them!”
In the rumble seat, a glowing-eyed Dora was saying: “Dick Farley, what if this should be the same robber gang—oh, I’m trying to say—”
“I get you!” Dick put in. “You’re wondering if the three bandits who held up the stage and may have kidnapped Little Bodil are in this gang. I doubt it. They’d be old fellows by now. It takes young blood to do deeds of daring.”