Their eyes suddenly began to blink. They could scarcely credit what they saw.
Right in the middle of the moonlit space, as if he had risen from the ground, stood the great outlaw himself.
How he had come there without their observing him, was beyond their understanding.
He was standing behind a large boulder, hat tipped back, his features plainly outlined in the brilliant moonlight, nose and face tipped upward as if scenting danger in the air.
Twenty trigger fingers twitched nervously, and as many Winchesters swung silently until they focused on the figure no more than twenty paces distant.
The great desperado poised there like a statue, hands and arms hanging listlessly at his sides, guns in their holsters as if there was no expectation of their being needed for instant use.
But this did not deceive Uncle Sam's Indian fighters. They were too familiar with Jesse James' reputation for quickness on the trigger not to understand that the mere glint of a moonbeam along a rifle barrel would mean death to the soldier behind it almost before he could pull his own trigger.
Like a blow in the face came the sudden command:
"Put up your hands, Jesse James!"
"Crash!"