W. C. Tuttle

“ The messenger came closer. The train was whistling, and they felt the slight jerk as the brakes were applied.
“I saw you kick that dog,” said Jim calmly, although his heart was hammering against his ribs. “No man would do a thing like that. It was a dirty trick—and then you try to lie out of it.”
“Why, you little four-eyed pup!” snorted the messenger. “I’ll make you take that back. Anyway, you’ve got no right in this car, and I’m justified in throwin’ yuh off.”
Jim Legg threw out his hands in protest to any such an action. He had never fought anybody, knew nothing of self-defense. ”

“ There was no noise, except the panting of the engine, its headlight cutting a pathway of silver across the Arizona hills. Minute after minute passed. It was too dark to see an object against the car or engine, and the three men in the grass did not see the engineer and fireman crawl along to the engine and sneak into the cab.
“Where’s that —— murderer with the riot-gun?” queried Eskimo Swensen. He was anxious to continue the battle.
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Johnny. “Somebody comin’.”
They could see the vague bulk of a man coming along the track. ”

“ The stopping and starting of the train between stations meant nothing to Jim Legg. He did not suspect that the first stop had been because a red lantern had been placed in the middle of the track near the Broken Cañon trestle, thereby stopping the train, and that just now three masked men were smashing through the safe, which contained the Santa Rita pay-roll. There, three men had cut the express car, forced the engineer to drive his engine to within about two miles of Blue Wells, where they stopped him, and escorted both engineer and fireman back to the express car. ”