The pilot was
almost in the long bridge at the end of the depot when the train stopped
to wait for the eastbound express to pass. The instant that Brown's
revolver arm was lowered and his head turned with uncertainty to look at
the train, Crosby's hand went to his coat pocket, and when the deputy
turned toward him again he found himself looking into the shiny,
glittering barrel of a pistol.
"Throw that gun away, my friend," said Crosby in a low tone, "or I'll
blow your brains out."
"Great Scott!" gasped Brown.
"Throw it away!"
"Don't kill him," pleaded Mrs. Delancy. Brown's knees were shaking like
leaves and his teeth chattered. His revolver sailed through the air and
clattered on the brick pavement beyond the end of the platform. "Don't
shoot," he pleaded, ready to drop to his knees.
"I won't if you are good and kind and obliging," said Crosby sternly.
"Turn around--face the engine. That's right. Now listen to me. I've got
this pistol jammed squarely against your back, and if you make a false
move--well, you won't have time to regret it.
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