“Be good enough to send that for me,” said he, “and leave orders at Barker’s for the night express eastward to stop for us, and bring a posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners.  And now, my dear Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on as soon as those rails are spiked.  When they realize the situation, some of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we can’t have any lynching.”

Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once to the conductor and brakemen, who began vociferating, “All aboard!"’ Just then Foster appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on his face, in the firelight.

“Major,” said he, “I didn’t use to take much stock in special Providence, or things being ordered; but I’m darned if I don’t believe in them from this day.  I was bound to stay where you put me, but I was uneasy, and wild to be in the scrimmage; and, if I had been there, I wouldn’t have taken notice of a little red light that wasn’t much behind the rear platform when we stopped.  When I saw there was no danger there I ran back, and what do you think I found?  There was a woman in a dead faint, and just clutching a lantern that she had tied up in a red scarf, poor little thing!  And, Major, it was Sally!  It was the little girl that loved me out at Barker’s, and has loved me and waited for me ever since!  And when she came to, and knew me, she was so glad she ’most fainted away again; and she let on as it was her that gave away the job.  And I took her into the sleeper, and the madam, God bless her!—­she knew Sally before and was good to her—­she took care of her and is cheering her up.  And now, Major, I’m going to take her straight to Denver, and send for a parson and get her married to me, and she’ll brace up, sure pop.”

The whistle sounded, and the train started.  From the window of the “sleeper” Sinclair and his wife took their last look at the weird scene.  The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped in his cloak, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair’s pretty face, and returned her bow.  Then, as the car passed out of sight, he tugged at his mustache and hummed: 

“Why, boys, why,
 Should we be melancholy, boys,
Whose business ’tis to die?”

In less than an hour, telegrams having in the meantime been sent in both directions, the train ran alongside the platform at Barker’s; and Watkins, imperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave him his letters.

“Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major,” said he.  “Good thing for the country.  That’s a lesson the ‘toughs’ in these parts won’t forget for a long time.  Plucky girl that give ’em away, wasn’t she?  Hope she’s all right.”

“She is all right,” said Sinclair with a smile.

“Glad of that.  By the way, that father of her’n passed in his checks to-night.  He’d got one warning from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they found out he was in with this gang, and they was a-going for him; but when the telegram come, he put a pistol to his head and saved them all trouble.  Good riddance to everybody, I say.  The sheriff’s here now, and is going east on the next train to get them fellows.  He’s got a big posse together, and I wouldn’t wonder if they was hard to hold in, after the ‘boys in blue’ is gone.”