The attacking party had boarded the train with just the right amount of theatrical bravado, but something went wrong. Someone must have hopelessly mixed the cues, for instead of towering over their shrinking victims the bandits had found themselves staring dumbly along the snub-noses of Colts in the trigger-quick hands of veterans. Denbigh's list had been checked off and, save for Ranlett and Marks, every man named on it was now being personally conducted up the silent street.
Phil had made good, gloriously good, Courtlandt exulted as he made his way to the baggage-car where Denbigh lay on the floor, his eyes closed, his face flushed with fever. Steve knelt beside him, and laid a cool hand on his forehead, but the wounded man did not move. Nelson climbed into the car.
"They've brought the stretcher, Steve. I'll attend to moving him while you get the girl off the train. I've sent for a doctor."
With his pulses hammering Courtlandt knocked at the door of the compartment in which he had left Jerry asleep. There was no answer. Had she gone? He knocked again, this time with a peremptoriness augmented by the fear in his heart.
Steve entered the compartment. From across the small room Jerry, dressed as she had been when she flagged the train, contemplated him with unfriendly eyes. Her blouse and linen breeches showed stains of mud and weather but they had been mended and pressed. Her boots, with the big rowels still attached, had been cleaned. Her hair, brushed till it shone like satin, had been coiled in place; even the scratch on her cheek had been reduced in color if not in length. Her lips were disdainful, her face curiously colorless as she challenged:
"We are back at Slippy Bend. We must leave the train at once. There has been----"
"I know. The maid told me of the hold-up and that--that someone was hurt. I feared--I feared"--even her lips whitened--"I--I've been so anxious----" She caught her breath in a strangled sob. "She said that it wasn't one of the train-hands or--or--a soldier, and I--I thought----"
"Don't worry, it wasn't Greyson," Courtlandt cut in brusquely; his eyes flamed a warning. "It--it was Phil Denbigh."
"Phil Denbigh! You don't mean the man Felice married?"