“Whom have you got?” he asked.
“Allen, night operator at Corona. The train is there, and I’ve been holding it to give you a chance to talk with McCarty, the conductor.”
“Tell me the story as you’ve got it; then I’ll tell you what to say to Mac,” was the brisk command.
“It was in Cromarty Gulch, just at the elbow where the track makes the ‘U’ curve. Cruger’s on the pilot-engine, and Jenkins is running the train puller. Cruger saw somebody throwing a red light at him. They stopped, and four of the hold-ups climbed on the engines and made them cut off the postal- and express-cars and pull on around the curve. Then a bunch of ’em broke in the end door of the express-car and scragged little Johnny Galt, the messenger. While they were doing that, another bunch went through the train and held up the passengers. After they’d gone through Galt’s car and taken what they wanted, they made Cruger and Jenkins couple up again and go on.”
“What did they take?” Maxwell asked.
“Some little money and jewelry from the passengers, McCarty says; not very much.”
“But from the express-car?”
The fat despatcher made a queer face and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“That’s the part of it that’s hard to believe. Galt was carrying considerable money, but they didn’t try to blow his safe. They—they smashed up a coffin and took the dead man out of it.”
“What!” ejaculated the superintendent; “Murtrie’s body?”