From the door came answer, shot for shot, and the car was filled with the stifling odor of burnt powder.

A woman screamed hysterically.
Then a puff of cool, prairie breeze came in through the shattered window behind Thurston, and the smoke-cloud lifted like a curtain blown upward in the wind.

The tawny-haired young fellow was walking coolly down the aisle, the smoking revolver pointing like an accusing finger toward the outlaw who lay stretched upon his face, his fingers twitching.
Outside, rifles were crackling like corn in a giant popper.

Presently it slackened to an occasional shot.

A brakeman, followed by two coatless mail-clerks with Winchesters, ran down the length of the train calling out that there was no danger.