A white and scared face peered out of the cab-window and Hopalong stopped his finger just in time, for the inquisitive man wore the cap of fireman.
"You idiot!" muttered the gunman, angrily. "Get back!" he ordered.
A pair of legs ran swiftly along the other side of the car and Red and Skinny fired instantly. The legs bent, their owner falling forward behind the rear truck, where he was screened from sight.
"They had it their own way before!" gritted Skinny. "Now we 'll see if they can stand th' iron!"
By this time Hopalong and Red were crawling under the express-car and were so preoccupied that they did not notice the faint blue streak of smoke immediately over their heads. Then Red glanced up to see what it was that sizzed, saw the glowing end of a three-inch fuse, and blanched. It was death not to dare and his hand shot up and back, and the dynamite cartridge sailed far behind him to the edge of the embankment, where it hung on a bush.
"Good!" panted Hopalong. "We 'll pay 'em for that!"
"They 're worse 'n rustlers!"
They could hear the messenger running about over their heads, dragging and up-ending heavy objects against the doors of the car, and Hopalong laughed grimly:
"Luck's with this messenger, all right."
"It ought to be—he 's a fighter."