When the fresh locomotive that had been hooked on at Effingham had galloped over the Ambraw bridge and stopped at Greenup, Epsom Pete boarded the blind baggage, and a moment later the black steed, snorting in the frosty morn, was dashing away across Fanchers’ farm.
The detective took a pair of handcuffs, which he happened to have in his grip, and festooned them upon Charley’s wrists. Stepping out on the rear platform he cut off a few feet of surplus bell rope that hung on the railing, and fettered Charley’s feet, so that he might not jump off and lose himself.
When the engineer whistled for Casey Tank he cut the cord and marched the robber-chief up through the train. When the engine had been placed, the detective, standing on the rear end of the day coach, fired three shots, imitating as well as he knew how “the measured beating of my lady’s heart.”
Leaping to the ground, he pushed Charley along in front of him until they came to Pete, cutting the coupling. “Come on, Pete,” said Watchem, and Pete, wondering who the new captain could be, followed on to the locomotive.
“Speak to the gentleman on the engine, Charley,” said the detective. “Call him off or I shall be compelled to kill him.”
“Jim,” said Charley, dramatically, “we have been betrayed. This train is loaded down with detectives and deputy sheriffs. We are surrounded, drop your gun.”
“Just hand it over to the engineer, please,” said Watchem. “There, that’s better. There’s not so many of me that I feel like fighting the whole band.”
“An’ now,” said Pete, facing Two-card Charley, “I reckon here’s whar’ we ’pologize an’ bow ourselves out.”
CHAPTER XII
McGUIRE GOES WEST