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Mooney jammed his gun into the man’s face.

The porter nearly lost his hold on the rail of the car with terror.

“My God!” he muttered. “Don’t shoot.”

We must have presented every element of terror to him—the deadly weapons and the three looming figures in their black peaked caps.

“Keep still,” said Mooney. “Do what you are told and you won’t get hurt.”

White tried the door to the express car; it was open. He pitched away the ax, seized the porter by the shoulders, and he and Mooney rushed the express car, using the body of the terrorized porter for a shield against any bullet that might be fired.

To their surprise they found the baggage master, mail clerk and express messenger all sitting on the floor eating lunch from dinner buckets.

There was no resistance.

They all threw up their hands almost with a single motion.

“Which is the express messenger?” said Mooney.

“I am,” replied one of the men.

“I want what you have in the way box,” he said.

The messenger denied having anything.

“Give me your key and I will find out.”