“Poor fellow! he doesn’t look strong,” remarked a sympathizer.
“Alec Carlyle is one of those chaps that you can’t judge by looks; there isn’t a better horseman west of the Alleghanies.”
St. Joseph in those days was not a large town. There was room to hold in comfort most of the population on Third Street, and it was there that nearly all of them had gathered on this soft spring afternoon. Had you been a member of the crowd you would have noticed that the eyes of nearly every one were turned expectantly toward the one-story, brick express office on the east side of the street, between Felix and Edmond Streets. Something was going on inside of that modest structure, but as yet it was veiled from the public. Several men and boys who stood nearest the building tried to peep through the windows, but, unable to do so, intently listened. All that they heard was the occasional stamp of a horse’s feet, and the confused murmur of voices. But it was not hard for them to imagine the scene within.
It was about four o’clock, when a small cannon boomed from the side of the street, two or three doors distant. The report was a sig-
