“Excuse me,” laughed one of the men. “Now line up.”
One other man was helping himself to the strongbox, while the driver sat stolidly in his seat, arms reaching toward the sky. He yanked the strongbox out across the front wheel and let it fall into the dirt.
The man who had handled the box was carrying a revolver in one hand, and now he came back to those who were watching the passengers. The men were all masked. The man with the revolver looked at the passengers closely.
Suddenly, and with apparently no reason, he threw up his revolver and fired point-blank at the stranger. The action was so sudden, so uncalled for, that Hashknife and Sleepy instinctively ducked.
“Stand still, damn yuh!” roared one of the shotgun men.
The stranger went to his knees, groped blindly for a moment, and sprawled on his face.
For several moments not a sound was heard. Then the man who fired the shot shoved his gun back into his holster.
“The damn fool reached for a gun,” he said slowly. “Shove the rest of ’em back into the stage.”
Hashknife turned and climbed back inside, while one man picked up the strongbox and walked around the team. Sleepy got inside, menaced by those two guns, and sat down. The two men turned and started around the team, while Sleepy swore softly, swung his belt around, and jerked out his gun.
“Take it easy, pardner,” cautioned Hashknife. “They never hurt us.”