It was early day and only a
straggler or two was in sight at the depot. The sun, already
mounting high, foretold a day of depressing heat. The steel lines
of the railway stretched interminably eastward toward the first stop
forty miles away.
Bob Russell, pale but defiant, stood in the middle of the track, his
heavy suit case in his hand.
Suddenly there was the crack of a revolver and the dust flew about
the young reporter's feet.
"Jist as a sample!" roared the angered Jellup. "The next one'll be
higher up." And his trembling finger pointed down the hot sandy
track.
There was nothing more to be done. The pale-faced but nervy
reporter turned toward the east and started slowly down the track.
Ned ran forward.
"Russell!" he shouted, "Russell!"
As the reporter paused and turned, hearing his name, there was a
second report of the marshal's revolver and Russell's suit case flew
from his hand, ripped and torn ragged by a forty-four bullet.
The smoke of the explosion puffed upward and, where it had been, the
marshal saw Ned Napier's automatic magazine revolver under his nose.
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