“Don’t let Billie bluff you, boys.  We can’t bump off more’n a dozen or so of you.  Hop to it.”

“You won’t laugh so loud when the rope’s round yore gullet,” retorted Albeen.

“That rope ain’t woven, yet,” flung back the young fellow coolly.

Even as he spoke a lariat whistled through the air.  Jim threw up a hand and the loop slid harmlessly down the side of the car.  One of the riders of the Flying V Y had tried to drag the prisoner out with a reata.

“You mean well, but you’ll never win a roping contest, Syd,” jeered Clanton.  “Good of you an’ all my old friends to gather here to see me off, I see you back there, Roush.  It’s been some years since we met, an’ me always lookin’ for you to say to you a few well-chosen words.  I’ll shoot straighter next time.”

The vigilantes raised a howl of fury.  They were like a wolf pack eager for the kill.  Between them and their prey stood one man, cool, indomitable, steady as a rock.  He held death in each hand, every man present knew it.  They could get Clanton if they were willing to pay the price, but though there were game men in the mob, not one of them wanted to be the first to put his foot on the lower step of the coach.

From the other end of the car came the sudden noise of hammering.  Some one had found a sledge in the baggage-room and with a dozen armed men back of him was trying to break down the door.

Prince called to his prisoner.  “You’ve got to get in this, Jim.  I appoint you deputy sheriff.  Unstrap this belt from my waist.  Take the other end of the car an’ hold it.  No shootin’ unless it comes to a showdown.  Understand?”

Clanton nodded.  His eyes gleamed.  “I’ll behave proper, Billie.”

Five seconds later the beating on the door stopped.  The eyes of the big blacksmith with the hammer popped out with a ludicrous terror.  Go-Get-’Em Jim was standing in the aisle grinning at him with a six-gun in each hand.  With a wild whoop the horseshoer dropped the sledge and turned.  He flung himself down the steps carrying with him half a dozen others.  Not till he was safe in his own shop two blocks away did he stop running.

A shrill whistle rang out from the side of the train farthest from the station.  The wheels began to move slowly.  There was a rush for the engine.  Jack Goodheart stood in the door of the cab ready for business.

“No passengers allowed here, boys,” he announced calmly.  “Take the coaches in the rear.”

A dozen revolvers cracked.  There was a rattle of breaking windows.  The engine, baggage-car, and smoker moved forward, leaving the rest of the train on the track.

Men, swarming like ants, had climbed to the top of the cars, evidently with some idea of getting at their victim from above.  Some of these were on the forward coaches.  They began to drop off hurriedly as the station fell to the rear.

The wheels turned faster.  Bud Proctor swung aboard and joined the sheriff.