Thurston thought it was a wreck, until out ahead came the sharp crackling of rifles.

A passenger behind him leaned out of the window and a bullet shattered the glass above his head; he drew back hastily.
Some one hurried through the front vestibule, the door was pushed unceremoniously open and a man--a giant, he seemed to Thurston--stopped just inside, glared down the length of the coach through slits in the black cloth over his face and bawled, "Hands up!" Thurston was so utterly surprised that his hands jerked themselves involuntarily above his head, though he did not feel particularly frightened; he was filled with a stupefied sort of curiosity to know what would come next.

The coach, so far as he could see, seemed filled with uplifted, trembling hands, so that he did not feel ashamed of his own.

The man behind him put up his hands with the other--but one of them held a revolver that barked savagely and unexpectedly close against the car of Thurston.

Thurston ducked.