An' Old Monte shorely obeys
them mandates, an' goes crashin' off up the canyon on the run.
"Them outlaws hauls the plunder to one side of the trail an' lays
for the mail-bag with a bowie. All three is as busy as prairy dogs
after a rain, rippin' open letters an' lookin' for checks an'
drafts. Later they aims at some op'rations on the express company's
box.
"But they never gets to the box. Thar's the lively tones of a
Winchester which starts the canyon's echoes to talkin'. That rifle
ain't forty foot away, an' it speaks three times before ever you-
all, son, could snap your fingers. An' that weepon don't make them
observations in vain. It ain't firin' no salootes. Quick as is the
work, the sights shifts to a new target every time. At the last, all
three hold-ups lays kickin' an' jumpin' like chickens that a-way,
two is dead an' the other is too hard hit to respond.
"Whoever does it? Jack Moore, he's that one shiverin' passenger that
time. He slides outen the stage as soon as ever it turns the angle
of the canyon, an' comes scoutin' an' crawlin' back on his prey. An'
I might add, it shore soothes Jack's vanity a lot, when the first
remainder shows down as that artless maverick, Davis.
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