The Santa Fe flyer was due at the tank at 11.15 P. M. At eleven, Tom and I lay down on one side of the track, and Jim and Ike took the other.  As the train rolled up, the headlight flashing far down the track and the steam hissing from the engine, I turned weak all over.  I would have worked a whole year on the ranch for nothing to have been out of that affair right then.  Some of the nerviest men in the business have told me that they felt the same way the first time.

The engine had hardly stopped when I jumped on the running-board on one side, while Jim mounted the other.  As soon as the engineer and fireman saw our guns they threw up their hands without being told, and begged us not to shoot, saying they would do anything we wanted them to.

“Hit the ground,” I ordered, and they both jumped off.  We drove them before us down the side of the train.  While this was happening, Tom and Ike had been blazing away, one on each side of the train, yelling like Apaches, so as to keep the passengers herded in the cars.  Some fellow stuck a little twenty-two calibre out one of the coach windows and fired it straight up in the air.  I let drive and smashed the glass just over his head.  That settled everything like resistance from that direction.

By this time all my nervousness was gone.  I felt a kind of pleasant excitement as if I were at a dance or a frolic of some sort.  The lights were all out in the coaches, and, as Tom and Ike gradually quit firing and yelling, it got to be almost as still as a graveyard.  I remember hearing a little bird chirping in a bush at the side of the track, as if it were complaining at being waked up.

I made the fireman get a lantern, and then I went to the express car and yelled to the messenger to open up or get perforated.  He slid the door back and stood in it with his hands up.  “Jump overboard, son,” I said, and he hit the dirt like a lump of lead.  There were two safes in the car—­a big one and a little one.  By the way, I first located the messenger’s arsenal—­a double-barrelled shot-gun with buckshot cartridges and a thirty-eight in a drawer.  I drew the cartridges from the shot-gun, pocketed the pistol, and called the messenger inside.  I shoved my gun against his nose and put him to work.  He couldn’t open the big safe, but he did the little one.  There was only nine hundred dollars in it.  That was mighty small winnings for our trouble, so we decided to go through the passengers.  We took our prisoners to the smoking-car, and from there sent the engineer through the train to light up the coaches.  Beginning with the first one, we placed a man at each door and ordered the passengers to stand between the seats with their hands up.

If you want to find out what cowards the majority of men are, all you have to do is rob a passenger train.  I don’t mean because they don’t resist—­I’ll tell you later on why they can’t do that—­but it makes a man feel sorry for them the way they lose their heads.  Big, burly drummers and farmers and ex-soldiers and high-collared dudes and sports that, a few moments before, were filling the car with noise and bragging, get so scared that their ears flop.