r the onslaught upon Calliope. The plan
was to accomplish the downfall of the Quicksand Terror without loss to
the attacking party, if possible.

The splenetic Calliope, unconscious of retributive plots, was steaming
down the channel, cannonading on either side, when he suddenly became
aware of breakers ahead. The city marshal and one of the deputies rose
up behind some dry-goods boxes half a square to the front and opened
fire. At the same time the rest of the posse, divided, shelled him
from two side streets up which they were cautiously manoeuvring from a
well-executed detour.

The first volley broke the lock of one of Calliope's guns, cut a neat
underbit in his right ear, and exploded a cartridge in his crossbelt,
scorching his ribs as it burst. Feeling braced up by this unexpected
tonic to his spiritual depression, Calliope executed a fortissimo note
from his upper register, and returned the fire like an echo. The
upholders of the law dodged at his flash, but a trifle too late to
save one of the deputies a bullet just above the elbow, and the
marshal a bleeding cheek from a splinter that a ball tore from the box
he had ducked behind.

And now Calliope met the enemy's tactics in kind. Choosing with a
rapid eye the street from which the weakest and least accurate
fire had come, he invaded it at a double-quick, abandoning the
unprotected middle of the street. With rare cunning the opposing
force in that direction--one of the deputies and two of the valorous
volunteers--waited, concealed by beer barrels, until Calliope had
passed their retreat, and then peppered him from the rear. In another
moment they were reinforced by the marshal and his other men, and then
Calliope felt that in order to successfully prolong the delights of the
controversy he must find some means of reducing the great odds against
him. His eye fell upon a structure that seemed to hold out this promise,
providing he could reach it.

Not far away was the little railroad station, its building a strong
box house, ten by twenty feet, resting upon a platform four feet above
ground. Windows were in each of its walls. Something like a fort it
might become to a man thus sorely pressed by superior numbers.

Calliope made a bold and rapid spurt for it, the marshal's crowd
"smoking" him as he ran. He reached the haven in safety, the station
agent leaving the building by a window, like a flying squirrel, as the
garrison entered the door.

Patterson and