The passengers fell into line as directed, Collins with the rest.
“You’re calling this dance, son; it’s your say-so, I guess,” he conceded.
“Keep still, or I’ll shoot you full of holes,” growled the autocrat of the artillery.
“Why, sure! Ain’t you the real thing in Jesse Jameses?” soothed the sheriff.
At the sound of Collins’ voice, the masked man had started perceptibly, and his right hand had jumped forward an inch or two to cover the speaker more definitely. Thereafter, no matter what else engaged his attention, the gleaming eyes behind the red bandanna never wandered for a moment from the big plainsman. He was taking no risks, for he remembered the saying current in Arizona, that after Collins’ hardware got into action there was nothing left to do but plant the deceased and collect the insurance. He had personal reasons to know the fundamental accuracy of the colloquialism.
The train-conductor fussed up to the masked outlaw with a ludicrous attempt at authority. “You can’t rob the passengers on this train. I’m not responsible for the express-car, but the coaches—”
A bullet almost grazed his ear and shattered a window on its way to the desert.
“Drift, you red-haired son of a Mexican?” ordered the man behind the red bandanna. “Git back to that seat real prompt. This here’s taxation without representation.”
The conductor drifted as per suggestion.
The minutes ticked themselves away in a tense strain marked by pounding hearts. The outlaw stood at the end of the aisle, watching the sheriff alertly.