"We've come to help you open the bank! Get a move on and open that vault!" In blank amazement, the startled cashier whirled about, his mouth opened as though to shout an alarm only to close it as he beheld the ugly muzzles of the four six-shooters pointed at him. "Don't stand and gawp! Step lively!" admonished the bandit-chieftain. For an instant, Mr. Harris hesitated, evidently trying to make up his mind whether to save his life or his depositors' money, then whined: "You have me at your mercy! I'm helpless!" "That's the way to talk," grinned the great outlaw. "But 'actions speak louder than words.' Open that vault or you'll be running errands for the Devil before you're two minutes older!" His hands trembling so that he could with difficulty work the combination, the cashier strove to obey. Intent upon watching him, Cole and Jesse had left young Rozier unguarded. Biding his time, the youth waited till the robbers' eyes were riveted on the steel vault, then made a dash for the door. But the sound of his steps recalled the bandits to his existence. Whirling, the great outlaw swung at him with his pistol barrel, just grazing the top of his head. "No you don't, you little cuss!" he snapped. "Come here to me or I'll make a new heir to the Rozier wealth!" Fearing to disobey, young Forman walked slowly toward his captor. "Get up there behind the counter," commanded the bandit-chieftain. "That's the way. Now hold this bag!" And he produced the ever-present gunny-sack from the blouse of his shirt. The massive doors of the safe had answered to the manipulation of the tumblers in the combination and Cole was inside as the boy reluctantly took hold of the bag. "Where's the rest of the money?" demanded the eldest of the Younger brothers, emerging with only two sacks of gold in his hands and a couple of packages of bank notes under his arms. "It's--it's in Kansas City!" whimpered the cashier. "A--ha! I see! This is your doings, you little pig-faced mut!" roared Jesse, grabbing young Rozier by the coat collar and shaking him while he poured a torrent of blasphemous abuse on his luckless head. "How much _was_ there in the vault last night, old baldy?" he snarled at Mr. Harris. "$8,500." "How much did you send to Kansas City?" "Not quite $100,000." At the thought of the vast amount of which he had been deprived by the journey of the bank president's son to Ste. Genevieve, the wrath of the world-famous desperado broke out anew. "Why didn't you stay in the Springs?" he thundered. "I was a fool not to have shot you when you pointed out my tent to Dillaby." Gazing at the bandit in terror, the youth blinked at him a moment, then cried: "You're 'Howard' the false miner! Father was right! Help! He--" But the cry was stifled in his throat by the powerful fingers of the terrible outlaw.