the gantlet of guns the big car rushed. The man at the wheel bent low and took the reckless chance of getting through. Then, a hundred feet ahead, his lights fell upon the dauntless abandoned flivver. He jerked frantically at the brakes. Then, a hundred feet ahead, his lights fell upon the dauntless, abandoned flivver "Halt!" shouted Anderson Crow from the top of the roadside bank. "Surrender in the name of the Law!" He spoke just in time. Crash! They halted! Deacon Rank's little car died a glorious, spectacular death. (Harry Squires, in his account, placed it all alone in the list of "unidentified dead.") Three minutes after the collision, brawny soldiers were bending over the stretched-out figures of five unconscious men. Mr. and Mrs. Crow stood on the edge of the group, awe-struck and silent. "They're coming around, all right," said some one at Anderson's elbow. "He was slowing down when they struck. But there's no hope for the poor old flivver." Anderson found his voice—a quavering, uncertain voice—and exclaimed: "Stand aside, men! I am the marshal of Tinkletown, an' them scoundrels are my prisoners." His progress was barred by a couple of soldiers. An officer approached. "Easy, Mr. Marshal—easy, now. This is our affair, you know. I guess you'd better come with me to the colonel. Don't be alarmed. They shan't escape." "They're mighty desperit characters—" began Anderson. "Step this way, please," said the other shortly. It was four o'clock in the morning when Mr. and Mrs. Crow were deposited at their front door by the colonel's automobile. The robbers, under heavy guard, remained in the camp, pending action on the part of the civic authorities. They were very much alive and kicking when Anderson left them, after a pompous harangue on the futility of crime in that neck of the woods. "Yes, sir, Colonel," he said, turning to the camp commander, "a crook ain't got any
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