But had one been suspicious he might have noted a certain method in the actions of these newcomers who seemed to be everywhere at once, and yet acting without any apparent motive. After a time the band seemed to have formed in two sections--one at the north end of the main street and the other at the south, the latter section consisting of fewer men than the northern group. On the north might have been found the great outlaw, his brother having cast his lot with the band to the south. Jesse sauntered carelessly into the postoffice and asked if there was any mail for Jim Howard. While the postmaster was looking over his letters Wild Bill slipped behind the case and dealt the postmaster a terrific blow with the butt of his revolver. While the act was in plain view of the street through the large front window, there chanced to be no one passing at the moment, and neither was the brutal assault observable to those in the bank on the other side of the partition. "Who are you?" demanded Jesse as a fellow, hideous in his hunchbacked deformity leered up into his face. "I reckon I don't know you either?" was the enigmatical reply. "You're Jake Fowler. I know you." "But you ain't Sagebrush Sam. What do you want here?" "S-h-h," whispered Jesse. "He sent me here. How many men are over there behind the counter of the bank?" "Two, the owner and the cashier," informed the other, his eye twinkling with intelligence. "Call them over here. Tell them the postmaster has been hurt. They won't see me, but my pard here will cover them the minute they get behind the case, and we'll hold you in here till we get through. No tricks or I'll shoot you full of holes," hissed the desperado, dropping behind a barrel and motioning to Bill to make himself scarce, as Jake ran to the bank counter in great excitement. "Come quick!" cried Jake. "The postmaster has been hurt or else he's fallen in a fit." "What--where?" cried the two bankers excitedly. "Over here. Hurry." Jake was playing his part as if he had been studying it for months and Jesse grinned approvingly. The three had stooped to raise the body of the prostrate man when they were startled by the sudden command: "Move an inch and you're both dead men." The owner of the bank started to utter an exclamation, but the words froze in his mouth as looking sideways he found himself gazing along the black, menacing barrel of a heavy "Colt's." Jesse, not wasting the time to go around into the enclosure, had leaped the counter and was down on his knees in front of the large open safe whose doors were swung wide, displaying their glittering contents to his avaricious gaze. Gold, bills, little sacks of precious dust were swept with ruthless hand into the yawning gunny sack like meal from a miller's hopper. Meanwhile two mounted men in front had dismounted and were busily engaged in tightening their saddle girths, apparently oblivious to anything that was going on around them.