“You!”

“Not very original,” Bell said cynically. “But since I used the same expression at the bank in Telluride, I won’t criticize.”

A silence came over the two men that seemed to last a lifetime, but it was only the few seconds that it took Cromwell to see that the apparition really was Isaac Bell.

Cromwell just stood there in growing disbelief, his face suddenly turning pale.

“You were dead!” he gasped. “I shot you!”

“Twice, as a matter of fact,” said Bell with a hard edge to his voice. His right hand gripped the 1905 Colt .45 automatic, its muzzle aimed squarely between Cromwell’s eyes and held as steady as an iron bar in concrete.

For the first time in his life, Jacob Cromwell was taken completely off guard. His agile mind, filled with overconfidence, had never considered how he would act should the time ever come when he was apprehended. The unthinkable was never dwelled upon. He had always thought of himself as untouchable. Now he stood face-to-face with his archenemy, who should have been dead. He felt like a captain whose unsinkable ship had run up on the rocks.

Cromwell’s Colt .38 was in his coat pocket, but he knew Bell would blow his brains out before he could reach for it. Slowly, he lifted his hands into the air in abject defeat.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“I’m going to borrow your special train to take you back to San Francisco. There, I’ll turn you over to the police, until such time as you’re tried for murder and hung.”

“You have it all mapped out.”

“The day had to come, Cromwell. You should have quit when you were ahead.”

“You can’t arrest me. I have committed no crime.”

“Then why are you disguised as a railroad conductor?”

“Why don’t you shoot me now and get it over with?” Cromwell asked, his composed arrogance coming back on keel.

“A mere slap on the hand for your crimes,” Bell said caustically. “Better you have plenty of time to think about the hangman’s noose tightening around your murdering neck.”

Bronson came from around the rear of the Pullman car, his Smith & Wesson double-action .44 revolver drawn and pointed at Cromwell’s chest. “Nice going, Isaac. You nabbed our friend here before he could commit another crime.”

Bell handed Bronson a pair of Tower nickel-plated, double-lock handcuffs. The agent wasted no time in snapping them on Cromwell’s wrists. Then he gave the bandit a thorough search and found the .38 Colt automatic.

“The weapon you used to commit three dozen murders,” Bronson said with a cold voice.

“Where did you come from?” Cromwell demanded at seeing Bronson and knowing with certainty that these men would not hesitate to shoot him if he gave the slightest indication of trying to escape.

“Isaac drove us from San Francisco in his automobile,” he answered as if it were an everyday event.

“Impossible!” snorted Cromwell.