While the postmaster was looking over his letters Wild Bill slipped behind the case and dealt the postmaster a terrific blow with the butt of his revolver.
While the act was in plain view of the street through the large front window, there chanced to be no one passing at the moment, and neither was the brutal assault observable to those in the bank on the other side of the partition.
"Who are you?" demanded Jesse as a fellow, hideous in his hunchbacked deformity leered up into his face.
"I reckon I don't know you either?" was the enigmatical reply.
"You're Jake Fowler. I know you."
"But you ain't Sagebrush Sam. What do you want here?"
"S-h-h," whispered Jesse. "He sent me here. How many men are over there behind the counter of the bank?"
"Two, the owner and the cashier," informed the other, his eye twinkling with intelligence.
"Call them over here. Tell them the postmaster has been hurt. They won't see me, but my pard here will cover them the minute they get behind the case, and we'll hold you in here till we get through. No tricks or I'll shoot you full of holes," hissed the desperado, dropping behind a barrel and motioning to Bill to make himself scarce, as Jake ran to the bank counter in great excitement.
"Come quick!" cried Jake. "The postmaster has been hurt or else he's fallen in a fit."