In the Pullman there was a wild turmoil, as the relieved passengers
crowded around the boys and wrung their hands in congratulation. They
couldn't say enough in praise of the courage and presence of mind that
had turned the tables so swiftly and gallantly. The spoils were retrieved
and distributed among the rightful owners, and then, with a bow of mock
politeness, the old sombrero, empty now, was clapped on the head of the
baffled collector, who received it with a new string of blasphemies.
By this time the victim of Tom's unerring aim had gradually struggled
back to consciousness. His arms and feet had been securely tied and his
remaining revolver had been taken from his belt. Of a stronger mold than
his accomplice, he disdained to vent his rage in useless imprecations and
relapsed into silence as stoical as an Indian's. But, if looks could
kill, the boys would have been blasted by the brooding hate that shot
from under his jutting brows.
"I'm glad it didn't kill him, anyway," said Tom, as, after the tumult had
somewhat subsided, they once more were seated and the train was flying
along at full speed.
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