“The Sheriff and two Pinkerton men,” he answered, gravely. “They have arrested Bob and Tom for the hold-up.”
“Owen,” I gasped, standing up so suddenly that the U. S. mail flew in all directions. “You don’t believe they were the ones, do you?”
“Not for a minute,” Owen answered, with conviction. “And I told them so, but it seems the men have bad records and the description fits them. ‘A tall man, with a Southern accent, and a short, slight, smaller man.’ So they arrested them.” Owen sat down. “It’s absurd. In the first place, they couldn’t have gotten to the railroad in time to hold up the limited. They didn’t leave here until nine o’clock, and in the next place, they went home.”
“But they didn’t.” I felt suddenly weak in my knees. “I took the clothes over to Mrs. Reed, and both she and Maggie were wondering why they hadn’t come.”
Owen looked at me in blank amazement, and then asked why on earth I hadn’t told him.
“Good heavens, Owen, I haven’t seen you a moment alone. And, besides, I never supposed it made any difference where the men went. Hereafter if the angel Gabriel comes to work for us, I shall insist upon knowing where he spends his nights. Really,” I began to laugh, “you know, if we ever leave this ranch, the only place we shall feel at home is in the penitentiary. None but people with ‘records’ and ‘pasts’ will interest us.” I was half amused and wholly excited, for even to have a speaking acquaintance with the leading figures in a hold-up and murder was something my wildest flight of imagination could have scarcely pictured a few months before. Owen was really serious.
“Well, I must say,” he shook his head and looked down at the floor, “it begins to look as though Bob and Tom might have some trouble proving they weren’t the men. It’s serious for them, since they weren’t at home. The description certainly fits them.” Owen took up the paper. “‘One man about five feet eight inches high, slender and light mustache, wearing old clothes and a rusty black slouch hat. The other man five feet ten inches tall, slender, short, black mustache, about forty years old, spoke with a Southern accent, wore an old black suit and an old striped rubber coat.’”
“Go on,” I said, as Owen started to put the paper down; “I want to hear it.” He read on:
“‘The men were supposed to have boarded the train coming from Denver, at a small station this side of Star. The Pullmans were on the rear. When the train stopped at the station, the Pullman conductor went out on the back platform and saw two men crouching in the vestibule. He told them to get off, but at that moment the train started, and they rose up, covering him with their revolvers. One got behind him, holding his gun against him, the other in front. They handed him a gunny-sack and made him carry it. In this manner they entered the body of the car.
“‘In the first car they got very little plunder, and pushed on into the next. As they entered the second sleeper, they met the porter, who was forced to elevate his hands and precede them. While they were engaged in robbing the passengers in the second Pullman, the train conductor entered, and was compelled to elevate his hands, with the rest.