“And only one street to cross, at that,” added Bert.

It was the typical small town of the Western plains.  The one crooked street parallel with the track stretched on either side of the station for perhaps half a mile, lined with houses at irregular intervals.  There was no pretence of a sidewalk and even fences were conspicuous by their absence.  The business part of the town consisted of a general store that served also as a post office, a blacksmith shop and three saloons, to one of which a dance hall was attached.  Business seemed brisk in these, judging from the many mustangs that were tied to rails outside, patiently waiting for their masters who were “tanking up” within and accumulating their daily quota of “nose paint.”  A Mexican in a tattered serape was sitting on the steps of the store rolling a cigarette, while an Indian, huddled in a greasy blanket and evidently much the worse for fire water, sat crouched against the shack that served as baggage-room at the left end of the station.

Down the platform came hustling a big burly form that they recognized in an instant.

“Mr. Melton,” they cried in chorus as they rushed with extended hands to meet him.

“Sure thing,” he responded, his face beaming with delight at their hearty greeting.  “Did you think I’d send one of my men to meet you?  Not on your life.  Nothing less than a broken leg would have kept me from coming to give you the first welcome to old Montana.  Came down yesterday so that the horses could have a good rest before starting back again.  Come right along now and tumble into the buckboard.  One of my men will look after your duds and bring them along later.”

All talking at once, they came to the farther end of the platform, where a big mountain wagon was waiting.  It was drawn by a pair of wiry mustangs that champed impatiently at the bit.

“Not very pretty to look at,” said Melton, “but they’re holy terrors when it comes to traveling.  Jump in.”

They all piled in and Melton gathered up the reins.  He chirped to the horses and they started off at a rate that justified all he had said as to their speed.  But he held them in check and subdued them to a trot that, while moderate in appearance, ate up the miles amazingly.

“Pure grit and iron, those little sinners,” he commented.  “But they’ve got a long way to go, and we’re sure even at this rate to get home in plenty of time for supper.  Now, tell me all about yourselves.”

Which they proceeded to do in detail, not neglecting the attempted hold-up on the train.  He listened with the keenest interest.

“So you got the best of ‘Red’ Thompson and ‘Shag’ Leary,” he exclaimed in astonishment.  “The toughest nuts we’ve had to crack in this section for years.  A good many people will breathe easier now that they’re trapped.  They’re ‘bad men’ through and through, and if their pistol butts had a notch on them for every man they’ve killed, they’d look like saws.  And with nothing but a paperweight and bare fists,” he chuckled.  “They sure must feel sore.  What was done with them?”