HANDS UP!
All this time Lieutenant Mallory had been thinking as hard as an
officer in an ambuscade. His harrowing experiences and incessant
defeats of the past days had unnerved him and shattered his
self-confidence. He was not afraid, but intensely disgusted. He sat
absent-mindedly patting Marjorie on the back and repeating:
"Don't worry, honey, they're not going to hurt anybody. They don't
want anything but our money. Don't worry, I won't let 'em hurt you."
But he could not shake off a sense of nausea. He felt himself a
representative of the military prowess of the country, and here he was
as helpless as a man on parole.
The fact that Mallory was a soldier occurred to a number of the
passengers simultaneously. They had been trained by early studies in
those beautiful works of fiction, the school histories of the United
States, and by many Fourths of July, to believe that the American
soldier is an invincible being, who has never been defeated and never
known fear.
They surged up to Mallory in a wave of hope. Dr. Temple, being
nearest, spoke first. Having learned by experience that his own
prayers were not always answered as he wished, had an impulse to try
some weapon he had never used.
"Young man," he pleaded across the back of a seat, "will you kindly
lend me a gun?"
Mallory answered sullenly: "Mine is in my trunk on the train ahead,
damn it. If I had it I'd have a lot of fun."
Mrs. Whitcomb had an inspiration. She ran to her berth, and came back
with a tiny silver-plated revolver.
"I'll lend you this. Sammy gave it to me to protect myself in Nevada!"
Mallory smiled at the .22-calibre toy, broke it open, and displayed an
empty cylinder.
"Where are the pills that go with it?" he said.
"Oh, Sammy wouldn't let me have any bullets. He was afraid I'd hurt
myself."
Mallory returned it, with a bow. "It would make an excellent
nut-cracker."
"Aren't you going to use it?" Mrs. Whitcomb gasped.
"It's empty," Mallory explained.
"But the robbers don't know that! Couldn't you just overawe them with
it?"
"Not with that," said Mallory, "unless they died laughing."
Mrs. Wellington pushed forward: "Then what the devil are you going to
do when they come?"
Mallory answered meekly: "If they request it, I shall hold up my
hands."
"And you won't resist?" Kathleen gasped.
"Not a resist."
"And he calls himself a soldier!" she sneered.
Mallory writhed, but all he said was: "A soldier doesn't have to be a
jackass. I know just enough about guns not to monkey with the wrong
end of 'em."
"Coward!" she flung at him. He turned white, but Marjorie red, and
made a leap at her, crying: "He's the bravest man in the world. You
say a word, and I'll scratch your eyes out."
This reheartened Mallory a little, and he laughed nervously, as he
restrained her. Kathleen retreated out of danger, with a parting shot:
"Our engagement is off."
"Thanks," Mallory said, and put out his hand: "Will you return the
bracelet?"
"I never return such things," said Kathleen.
The scene was so painful and such an anachronism that Dr. Temple tried
to renew a more pressing subject: "It's your opinion then that we'd
best surrender?"
"Of course--since we can't run."
Wedgewood broke in impatiently: "Well, I consider it a dastardly
outrage. I'll not submit to it. I'm a subject of His Majesty the----"
"You're a subject of His Majesty the Man Behind the Gun," said
Mallory.
"I shall protest, none the less," Wedgewood insisted.
Mallory grinned a little. "Have you any last message to send home to
your mother?"
Wedgewood was a trifle chilled at this. "D-don't talk of such things,"
he said.
And by this time the train-robbers had hastily worked their way
through the other passengers, and reached the frantic inhabitants of
the sleeper, "Snowdrop."
"Hands up! Higher!! Hands up!"
With a true sense of the dramatic, the robbers sent ahead of them the
most hair-raising yells. They arrived simultaneously at each end of
the aisle, and with a few short sharp commands, straightened the
disorderly rabble into a beautiful line, with all palms aloft and all
eyes wide and wild.
One robber drove ahead of him the conductor and the other drove in Mr.
Manning, whom he had found trying to crawl between the shelves of the
linen-closet.
The marauders were apparently cattlemen, from their general get-up.
Their hats were pulled low, and just beneath their eyes they had drawn
big black silk handkerchiefs, tied behind the ears and hanging to the
breast.
Over their shoulders they had slung the feed-bags of their horses, to
serve as receptacles for their swag. Their shirts were chalky with
alkali dust. Their legs were encased in heavy chaparejos, and they
carried each a pair of well-used Colt's revolvers that looked as big
as artillery.
When the passengers had shoved and jostled into line, one of the men
jabbed the conductor in the back with the muzzle of his gun, and
snarled: "Now speak your little piece, like I learned it to you."
The conductor, like an awkward schoolboy, grinned sheepishly, and
spoke, his hands in the air the while:
"Ladies and Gents, these here parties in the black tidies says they
want everybody to hold his or her hands as high as possible till you
git permission to lower 'em; they advise you not to resist, because
they hate the sight of blood, but prefer it to argument."
The impatient robbers, themselves the prey of fearful anxieties, broke
in, barking like a pair of coyotes in a jumble of commands: "Now, line
up with your backs that way, and no back talk. These guns shoot awful
easy. And remember, as each party is finished with, they are to turn
round and keep their hands up, on penalty of gittin' 'em shot off.
Line up! Hands up! Give over there!"
Mrs. Jimmie Wellington took her time about moving into position, and
her deliberation brought a howl of wrath from the robber: "Get into
that line, you!"
Mrs. Wellington whirled on him: "How dare you, you brute?" And she
turned up her nose at the gun.
The anxious conductor intervened: "Better obey, madame; he's an ugly
lad."
"I don't mind being robbed," said Mrs. Jimmie, "but I won't endure
rudeness."
The robber shook his head in despair, and he tried to wither her with
sarcasm: "Pardong, mamselly, would you be so kind and condescendin' as
to step into that there car before I blow your husband's gol-blame
head off."
This brought her to terms. She hastened to her place, but put out a
restraining hand on Jimmie, who needed no restraint. "Certainly, to
save my dear husband. Don't strike him, Jimmie!"
Then each man stuck one revolver into its convenient holster, and,
covering the passengers with the other, proceeded to frisk away
valuables with a speed and agility that would have looked prettier if
those impatient-looking muzzles had not pointed here, there and
everywhere with such venomous threats.
And so they worked from each end of the car toward the middle. Their
hands ran swiftly over bodies with a loathsome familiarity that could
only be resented, not revenged. Their hands dived into pockets, and
up sleeves, and into women's hair, everywhere that a jewel or a bill
might be secreted. And always a rough growl or a swing of the revolver
silenced any protest.
Their heinous fingers had hardly begun to ply, when the solemn
stillness was broken by a chuckle and low hoot of laughter, a darkey's
unctuous laughter. At such a place it was more shocking than at a
funeral.
"What ails you?" was the nearest robber's demand.
The porter tried to wipe his streaming eyes without lowering his
hands, as he chuckled on: "I--I--just thought of sumpum funny."
"Funny!" was the universal groan.
"I was just thinking," the porter snickered, "what mighty poor
pickings you-all are goin' to git out of me. Whilst if you had 'a'
waited till I got to 'Frisco, I'd jest nachelly been oozin' money."
The robber relieved him of a few dimes and quarters and ordered him to
turn round, but the black face whirled back as he heard from the other
end of the car Wedgewood's indignant complaint: "I say, this is an
outrage!"
"Ah, close your trap and turn round, or I'll----"
The porter's smile died away. "Good Lawd," he sighed, "they're goin'
to skin that British lion! And I just wore myself out on him."
The far-reaching effect of the whole procedure was just beginning to
dawn on the porter. This little run on the bank meant a period of
financial stringency for him. He watched the hurrying hands a moment
or two, then his wrath rose to terrible proportions:
"Look here, man," he shouted at the robber, "ain't you-all goin' to
leave these here passengers nothin' a tall?"
"Not on purpose, nigger."
"No small change, or nothin'?"
"Nary a red."
"Then, passengers," the porter proclaimed, while the robber watched
him in amazement; "then, passengers, I want to give you-all fair
warnin' heah and now: No tips, no whisk-broom!"
Perhaps because their hearts were already overflowing with distress,
the passengers endured this appalling threat without comment, and when
there was a commotion at the other end of the line, all eyes rolled
that way.
Mr. Baumann was making an effort to take his leave, with great
politeness.
"Excoose, pleass. I vant to get by, pleass!"
"Get by!" the other robber gasped. "Why, you----"
"But I'm not a passenger," Mr. Baumann urged, with a confidential
smile, "I've been going through the train myself."
"Much obliged! Hand over!" And a rude hand rummaged his pockets. It
was a heart-rending sight.
"Oi oi!" he wailed, "don't you allow no courtesies to the profession?"
And when the inexorable thief continued to pluck his money, his watch,
his scarf-pin, he grew wroth indeed. "Stop, stop, I refuse to pay.
I'll go into benkruptcy foist." But still the larceny continued;
fingers even lifted three cigars from his pockets, two for himself and
a good one for a customer. This loss was grievous, but his wildest
protest was: "Oh, here, my frient, you don't vant my business carts."
"Keep 'em!" growled the thief, and then, glancing up, he saw on the
tender inwards of Mr. Baumann's upheld palms two huge glisteners,
which their owner had turned that way in a misguided effort to conceal
the stones. The robber reached up for them.
"Take 'em. You're velcome!" said Mr. Baumann, with rare presence of
mind. "Those Nevada nearlies looks almost like real."
"Keep 'em," said the robber, as he passed on, and Mr. Baumann almost
swooned with joy, for, as he whispered to Wedgewood a moment later:
"They're really real!"
Now the eye-chain rolled the other way, for Little Jimmie Wellington
was puffing with rage. The other robber, having massaged him
thoroughly, but without success, for his pocketbook, noticed that
Jimmie's left heel was protruding from his left shoe, and made Jimmie
perform the almost incredible feat of standing on one foot, while he
unshod him and took out the hidden wealth.
"There goes our honeymoon, Lucretia," he moaned. But she whispered
proudly: "Never mind, I have my rings to pawn."
"Oh, you have, have you? Well, I'll be your little uncle," the
kneeling robber laughed, as he overheard, and he continued his
outrageous search till he found them, knotted in a handkerchief, under
her hat.
She protested: "You wouldn't leave me in Reno without a diamond, would
you?"
"I wouldn't, eh?" he grunted. "Do you think I'm in this business for
my health?"
And he snatched off two earrings she had forgotten to remove.
Fortunately, they were affixed to her lobes with fasteners.
Mrs. Jimmie was thoroughbred enough not to wince. She simply
commented: "You brutes are almost as bad as the Customs officers at
New York."
And now another touch of light relieved the gloom. Kathleen was next
in line, and she had been forcing her lips into their most attractive
smile, and keeping her eyes winsomely mellow, for the robber's
benefit. Marjorie could not see the smile; she could only see that
Kathleen was next. She whispered to Mallory:
"They'll get the bracelet! They'll get the bracelet!"
And Mallory could have danced with glee. But Kathleen leaned
coquettishly toward the masked stranger, and threw all her art into
her tone as she murmured:
"I'm sure you're too brave to take my things. I've always admired men
with the courage of Claude Duval."
The robber was taken a trifle aback, but he growled: "I don't know the
party you speak of--but cough up!"
"Listen to her," Marjorie whispered in horror; "she's flirting with
the train-robber."
"What won't some women flirt with!" Mallory exclaimed.
The robber studied Kathleen a little more attentively, as he whipped
off her necklace and her rings. She looked good to him, and so
willing, that he muttered: "Say, lady, if you'll give me a kiss, I'll
give you that diamond ring you got on."
"All right!" laughed Kathleen, with triumphant compliance.
"My God!" Mallory groaned, "what won't some women do for a diamond!"
The robber bent close, and was just raising his mask to collect his
ransom, when his confederate glanced his way, and knowing his
susceptible nature, foresaw his intention, and shouted: "Stop it,
Jake. You 'tend strictly to business, or I'll blow your nose off."
"Oh, all right," grumbled the reluctant gallant, as he drew the ring
from her finger. "Sorry, miss, but I can't make the trade," and he
added with an unwonted gentleness: "You can turn round now."
Kathleen was glad to hide the blushes of defeat, but Marjorie was
still more bitterly disappointed. She whispered to Mallory: "He didn't
get the bracelet, after all."