Benson, the cashier, was no coward, but neither was he a fool.  He knew when not to take a chance.  Promptly his arms shot up.  But even while he obeyed, his eyes were carrying to his brain a classification of this man for future identification.  The bandit was a stranger to him, a heavy-set, bandy-legged fellow of about forty-five, with a leathery face and eyes as stony as those of a snake.

“What do you want?” the bank officer asked quietly.

“Your gold and notes.  Is the safe open?”

Before the cashier could reply a shot rang out.  The unmasked outlaw slewed his head, to see the president of the bank firing from the door of his private office.  The other two robbers were already pumping lead at him.  He staggered, clutched at the door jamb, and slowly sank to the floor after the revolver had dropped from his hand.

Benson seized the opportunity to duck behind his desk and drag open a drawer, but before his fingers had closed on the weapon within, two crashing blows descended with stunning force on his head.  The outlaw covering him had reversed his heavy revolver and clubbed him with the butt.

“That’ll hold him for a while,” the bandit remarked, and dragged the unconscious man across the floor to where the president lay huddled.

One of the masked men, a lithe, sinuous fellow with a polka-dot bandanna round his neck, took command.

“Keep these men covered, Irwin, while we get the loot,” he ordered the unmasked man.

With that he and the boyish-looking fellow who had ridden into town with him, the latter carrying three empty sacks, followed the trembling teller to the vault.

No sound broke the dead silence except the loud ticking of the bank clock and an occasional groan from the cashier, who was just beginning to return to consciousness.  Twice the man left on guard called down to those in the vault to hurry.

There was need of haste.  Somebody, attracted by the sound of firing, had come running to the bank, peered in the big front window, and gone flying to spread the alarm.

Outside a shot and then another shattered the sultry stillness of the day.  The man left on guard ran to the door and looked out.  An upper window down the street was open, and from it a man with a rifle was firing at the outlaw left in charge of the horses.

The wrangler had taken refuge behind a bulwark of horseflesh, and was returning the fire.

“Hurry the boys, Brad!  Hell’s broke loose!” he called to his companion.

The town was alarmed and buzzing like a hornet’s nest.  Soon they would feel the sting of the swarm unless they beat an immediate retreat.  One sweep of his eyes told the bandy-legged fellow as much.  He could hear voices crying the alarm, could see men running to and fro farther down the street.  Even in the second he stood there a revolver began potting at him.

“Back in a moment,” he cried to the wrangler, and disappeared within to shout an urgent warning to the looters.