Left on the car with the men, the old sergeant had
said:
"Boys, you hear. It's that ---- Perry gang. Now, don't forget Larry and
Charley that they murdered last year," and there had come from the
soldiers a sort of fierce, subdued _growl_. The volley was followed by a
bayonet charge, and it required all the officer's authority to save the
lives even of those who "threw up their hands." Large as the gang was
(outnumbering the troops), well armed and desperate as they were, every
one was dead, wounded, or a prisoner when the men who guarded the train
platforms ran up. The surgeon, with professional coolness, walked up to
the robbers, his instrument case under his arm.
"Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant," said he. "That practice for
Creedmoor is telling on the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too.
Bullets are better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give them plenty
of that."
Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all was over. Then he
ordered a fire lighted, and the rails relaid. The flames lit a strange
scene as the passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men to keep
them back.
"Is there a telegraph station not far ahead Sinclair?" asked he. "Yes?
All right." He drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a despatch to
the post commander.
"Be good enough to send that for me," said he "and leave orders at
Barker's for the night express eastward to stop for us, and to bring a
posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners.
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