“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 bring a posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, my dear Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on as soon as those rails are spiked. When they realize the situation, some of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we can't have any lynching.” Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once to the conductor and brakemen, who began vociferating, “All aboard!” Just then Foster appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on his face, in the firelight.