The officer stepped back.  “Sergeant,” called he, “do you hear me plainly?” “Yes, sir.”

“Have the men fix bayonets.  When the train stops, and I wave my sword, let half jump off each side, run up quickly, and form line abreast of the engine—­not ahead.”

“Jack,” said Sinclair to the engine-driver, “is your hand steady?” The man held it up with a smile.  “Good.  Now stand by your throttle and your air-brake.  Lieutenant, better warn the men to hold on tight, and tell the sergeant to pass the word to the boys on the platforms, or they will be knocked off by the sudden stop.  Now for a look ahead!” and he brought the binocular to his eyes.

The great parabolic head-light illuminated the track a long way in advance, all behind it being of course in darkness.  Suddenly Sinclair cried out: 

“The fools have a light there, as I am a living man; and there is a little red one near us.  What can that be?  All ready, Jack!  By heaven! they have taken up two rails.  Now hold on, all!  STOP HER!!”

The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a jerk.  Then, holding hard by it, he sharply turned a brass handle.  There was a fearful jolt—­a grating—­and the train’s way was checked.  The lieutenant, standing sidewise, had drawn his sword.  He waved it, and almost before he could get off the engine the soldiers were up and forming, still in shadow, while the bright light was thrown on a body of men ahead.

“Surrender, or you are dead men!” roared the officer.  Curses and several shots were the reply.  Then came the orders, quick and sharp: 

“Forward!  Close tip!  Double-quick!  Halt! FIRE!” . . .  It was speedily over.  Left on the car with the men, the old sergeant had said: 

“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.