street. Major Simmonds came running toward him, making a signal with his flapping arms like a switchman stopping a train.
"The bank's robbed!" he yelled, stopping in the middle of the street. Hartwell hurried to him.
"What's that?"
"Robbed—cleaned out—vault open, everything gone!"
"Run for Stott—I'll call the marshal!"
Texas hurried off toward the little calaboose, behind which the town marshal lived, and the teller started off to summon Stott, leaving the bank door wide open. People who had heard the shouted alarm came running, and when Texas returned with the marshal in a few minutes the street before the gaping bank door was filled by the crowd of deeply concerned patrons.
The marshal posted himself in the door, refusing to allow even the anxious directors of the concern to enter until the arrival of Stott. The teller came panting back presently, his face white, his eyes fairly hanging on his cheeks.
"Gone!" said he.
A big gray man in a grocer's apron laid hold of the teller's shoulder and shook him, as if to settle him down to coherency.
"Gone? Who's gone?" he shouted.
"Stott!" the teller groaned.
