The swaying cradle had a new passenger, in the shape of a picturesquely garbed Mexican, who glared upon the boy with fierce wolfish orbs, fiery and bloodshot, as he flourished a long-barreled revolver in his face.
Phil did not need to inquire who the stranger was.
He guessed, and rightly, that it was Red Spider, the outlaw of the plains, who stood before him.
"Carajo!" the man hissed gutturally, thrusting the firearm forward until it snicked the boy's nose. "Whose baby are you? Why are you here? Answer, or over the side you go!"
Leaning forward, he seized Phil's wrist in a vise-like grip, and forced him slowly toward the edge of the car.
"Come to that, who are you?" the boy retorted pluckily. "You've got less right than I have to be here, I guess."
The half-breed's teeth grated with fury at this impertinence.
"I am left here to guard the trestle railway," he yelled, with a curse. "And my duty is to shoot brats who have no business here!"
He pushed the revolver into Phil's face, gradually forcing him nearer and nearer to the edge of the vibrating car.
"You find so many boys trying to steal rides on the trolleys, don't you?" that worthy choked, keeping his wits by a mighty effort of will. He could see that they were rushing rapidly toward the last platform, and, if he managed to cling on till then, he might manage to escape, hopeless as it seemed.