All was quiet at the main camp. Excepting that the division engineers were short-handed, and that Paul Carhart was away, things were going on with some regularity. Scribner rode in late on the second afternoon, and toward the end of the evening, when the office work was done, he and Young Van played a few rubbers of cribbage. The camp went to sleep as usual.

At some time between eleven o’clock and midnight the two young engineers tacitly put up the cards and settled back for a smoke.

“Do you know,” said Young Van, after a silence, “I don’t believe this stuff at all.”

Scribner tipped back, put his feet on the table, puffed a moment, and slowly nodded. “Same here, Gus,” he replied. “Fairy tales, all of it.”

“You can’t settle the ownership of a railroad by civil war.”

“No; but if you can get possession by a five-barrelled bluff, you can give the other fellow a devil of a time getting it back.”

“That’s true, of course.” They were silent again.

... “What’s that!” said Scribner. Both dropped their feet and sat up.

“Horse,” said Young Van.

“Devil of a way off.”

“Must be. Lost it now.”

“No—there it is again. Now, what do you suppose?”

“Don’t know. Let’s step out and look around.”

Standing on the sloping ground in front of the tent, they could at first distinguish nothing.

“Gives you a queer feeling,” said Scribner, “horse galloping—this time of night—”

”—just now,” Young Van completed, “when things are going on.”

“Coming from the east, too,—where Bourke is. Know him?”

“No—never met him. Heard of him, of course.”

“He’s a good one. Wish he was on our side.”

“I guess Mr. Carhart can match him.”

Scribner nodded. “This sort of a fight’s likely to settle down into the plain question of who’s got the cards. There’ll come a time when both sides’ll have to lay down their hands, and the cards’ll make the difference one way or the other. Just a show-down, after all.”

“I think myself Mr. Carhart’s got the cards. He didn’t look like a loser when he went off the other night.”

“If he has,” said Scribner, “you can bet he’ll ‘see’ Durfee and Bourke every time.”

... “Here’s that horse, Harry.”

“Big man—looks like—”

“It’s Tiffany.—Good evening, Mr. Tiffany.”

“How are you, boys? Paul here?”

“Why, no, Mr. Tiffany. He’s up on ‘mile 109.’”

“‘Mile 109!’” Tiffany whistled. “What the devil! You don’t mean that those—” he paused.

“Commodore Durfee’s at Red Hills, you know,” said Young Van.

“The —— he is!”

“And he’s sent a force to hold the west bank of the La Paz.”

By this time the chief engineer of the S. & W. had got his big frame to the ground. He bore unmistakable evidences of long and hard riding. Even in that dim light they could see that his face was seamed with the marks of exhaustion.

“Haven’t got a wee bit drappie, have you?” he asked.

“I certainly have,” Young Van replied. “Come right in.”

Tiffany tossed his hat on the table, reached out for the flask and tumbler, and tossed down a drink which would have done credit to the hardiest Highlander of them all. “Now show me the stable,” he said. “Want to fix my horse for the night. I’ve half killed him.”

A quarter of an hour later the three men were back in the headquarters tent.

“How did you get through, Mr. Tiffany?” asked Young Van.

“Came out on the first train to Barker Hills. Bourke’s holding the station there. He had a couple of our engines, and was working east, but we stopped that. Peet’s there now with Sheriff McGraw and a bundle of warrants and a hundred and fifty men—more, I guess, by this time. Just another thimbleful o’ that— Thanks! We’ve got Bourke blocked at Barker Hills, all right. Before the week’s out we’ll have the track opened proper for you. Mr. De Reamer’s taken hold himself, you know. He’s at Sherman, with some big lawyers—and maybe he ain’t mad all through!”

“Then Commodore Durfee hasn’t got the board of directors?”

“Not by a good deal! I doubt if even General Carrington’s votes would swing it for him now. But then, I don’t know such a heap about that part of it. I was telling you—I’ll take a nip o’ that. Thanks!—I was telling you. We come along the Middle Division, running slow,—we were afraid of obstructions on the track,—”

“Did you find any?”

“Did we find any?—Well I guess.” He held out a pair of big hands, palms up. “I got those splinters handling cross-ties in the dark. And about the middle of the Barker Hills division—at the foot of Crump’s Hill,—we found some rails missing.

“Well, sir, I left ’em there to fix it up—we had a repair car in the train—and got my horse off and rode around south of the station. Had some sandwiches in my pocket, but didn’t get a drop of water till I struck your first well, last night. You ain’t using that now?”

“No, we’ve moved up to two and three—this way.”

“There was a blamed fool tried to stop me, a mile south of Barker Hills Station—yelled at me; and fired when I didn’t answer.”— Tiffany paused with this, and looked grimly from one to the other of the young men. Then he drew a big revolver from his belt, opened it, and exhibited the cylinder. One chamber was empty. They were silent for a time.

“You’ll find Mr. Carhart’s cot all ready for you, Mr. Tiffany,” said Young Van, at length.

“All right. Can I get a breakfast at five? I’m going on to find Paul. That’s where the fun’ll be—where you find Paul Carhart. I wonder if you boys know what it means to have the opportunity to work with that man—eh? He had us all guessing about the old Paradise. And he was right—oh, he was right. There hasn’t a rail come through since.”

Scribner and Young Van were looking at each other. “Then those rails didn’t come from Pennsylvania?” said the former.

“He didn’t tell you, eh?” Tiffany grinned. “Well, I guess it ain’t a secret now. Mr. Chambers never even grunted when I told him, but he looked queer. And Mr. De Reamer ain’t said anything yet. Why, Paul, he see first off that we weren’t ever going to get the rest o’ those rails. He see, too, that Bourke was going to cut him off if he could. And what does he do? Why he comes down and walks off with the old Paradise Southern—rails, ties, everything. He never even tells Peet and me. It’s up to him, he thinks, and if he makes good, nobody can kick.” Tiffany was grinning again. “Yes, sir,” he continued, “Paul Carhart just naturally confiscated the Paradise Southern, and it was the prettiest job anybody ever see. And it’s funny—he says to me, while we were out there at Total Wreck pulling up the freight yard by the roots, ‘Tiffany,’ he says, ‘if you hadn’t told about how you stole those Almighty and Great Windy cars from the sheriff of Erie County, I’d never ‘a’ thought of it.’ Well, I’ll turn in, boys; good night.”

“Good night,” said Young Van.

“Good night,” said Scribner; “I’ll ride on with you as far as my division to-morrow, Mr. Tiffany. I can give you a fresh horse there.”

The chief engineer of the S. & W. disappeared between the flaps of Carhart’s tent. They could hear him throwing off his clothes and getting into bed. Another moment and they heard him snoring. They stood gazing off down the grade.

“Well, what do you think of that?” said Scribner. Young Van looked at his companion. “I think this,” he replied: “I wouldn’t miss this work and this fight under Paul Carhart for five years’ pay.”

Scribner nodded. “The loss of an engineer’s pay, Gus, wouldn’t make much difference one way or the other,” he replied, and his face lighted up with enthusiasm. “But it’s a great game!”

And so it was that something like two days after Carhart’s arrival on “mile 109,” Tiffany, a little the worse for wear, but still able to ride and eat and sleep and swear, came slowly down the slope into the camp, where Flint was hovering midway between the present and the hereafter. He found the chief of construction deep in a somewhat complicated problem, and after a bite to eat he climbed up the ridge behind the camp to the tent which Carhart was occupying.

“Well, Paul, how goes it?” said he.

“First-rate. How much do you know?”

“Precious little.”

Carhart mused a moment, then pulled out from a heap of papers one on which he had sketched a map. “Here we are,” said he. “The trestle is fifty to a hundred and fifty feet high, from ridge to ridge. Flagg has strung out his men along the west ridge, about a mile from here, and across the end of the trestle.”

“Yes, yes,” broke in Tiffany, “I see. I’ve been all over this ground.”

“Well, now, you see these two knolls on the west ridge, a little back of Flagg’s position? The one to the north is a hundred and twenty feet higher than Flagg’s men; the one to the south is eighty feet higher and only a quarter of a mile away from him. His line of retreat lies through the hollow between the two knolls, where the track is to run. Now if I put fifty or a hundred men on each knoll, I can command his position, and even shut off his retreat. His choice then would lie between moving north or south along the crest of the ridge, which is also commanded by the two knolls, or coming down the slope toward us.”

“Flagg hasn’t occupied the knolls, eh?”

“I believe he hasn’t. I’ve been watching them with the glasses.”

“I wonder why the Commodore put such a man in charge.”

“Oh, Flagg has some reputation as a bad man. He’s the sort General Carrington employed in the Colorado fights.”

They talked on for a time, then Carhart put up his map and they walked out. It was evening. Across the valley, at the point where the trestle met the rising ground, they could see lights, some of them moving about. Tiffany walked with his hands deep in his trousers pockets. Finally he said thoughtfully:—

“The more I think of it, Paul, the more I’m impressed by what Commodore Durfee has done. He has got possession of our grade over there—we can’t deny that. We’ve either got to give up, or else take the offensive and fight. And that would look rotten, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Carhart replied, “it would. He has made a pretty play. And as a play—as a bluff—it comes pretty near being effective.”

“D—n near!” Tiffany muttered.

“But now suppose we take those knolls—quietly, in the night—and close in across Flagg’s rear, hold a line from knoll to knoll, what then? Wouldn’t he have to shoot first?”

“Well, perhaps. But it would put both sides in a mean light. Oh, why didn’t John stand him off in the first place! Then he could have shot from our property, and been right in shooting.”

They had been pacing slowly up and down. Now Carhart stopped, and sat down on a convenient stick of timber. Tiffany followed his example. The moon was rising behind them, and the valley and the trestle and the rude intrenchments of timber and rock on the opposite ridge and the knolls outlined against the sky grew more distinct.

“Yes,” Carhart said slowly, “it’s a very good bluff. Commodore Durfee knows well enough that this sort of business can never settle the real question. But the question of who gets to Red Hills first is another thing altogether. The spectacle of Jack Flagg and a well-armed regiment of desperadoes in front of them, and the knowledge that the Commodore himself had organized the regiment and sent it out, would stop some engineers.”

Tiffany leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and gazed moodily out across the valley. He had been riding hard for four days, with not enough food and water and scarcely any sleep. Only one night of the four had found him on a cot—the other nights had been passed on the ground. In the resulting physical depression his mind had taken to dwelling on the empty chamber in his revolver—he wished he knew more of what that leaden ball had accomplished. And now here was John Flint shot down by a hidden enemy. It was the ugliest work he had been engaged in for years. When he finally spoke, he could not conceal his discouragement.

“How about this engineer here, Paul?” he said, still looking out there over the valley. “Will the regiment and Commodore Durfee stop you?”

“I hope not,” said Carhart.

“You’re going to fight, then—until the governor calls out the state troops, and throws us all out, and there’s hell to pay?”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to get ready to fight.”

“By putting your men on those two knolls?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’m going to Red Hills.”

“To Red Hills!” Tiffany sat up. There was more life in his voice.

“Yes.” Carhart laughed a little. “Why not?”

Tiffany half turned and looked earnestly into the face of this unusual man. The spectacles threw back the moonlight and concealed the eyes behind them. The lower part of the face was perhaps a trifle leaner than formerly. The mouth was composed. Tiffany found no answer there to the question in his own eyes. So he put it in words: “What are you going to do there, Paul?”

“See Commodore Durfee.”

“See—! Look here, do you know how mad he is? Do you think he came clear down here from New York, and shoved his old railroad harder than anybody but you ever shoved one before and hired the rascals that shot John Flint,—him playing for the biggest stakes on the railroad table to-day,—do you think he’ll feel like talking to the man who’s put him to all this trouble?”

“Well,” Carhart hesitated,—“I hope he will.”

“But it’s foolhardy, Paul. You won’t gain anything. Just the sight of you walking into the Frisco House office may mean gun play. If it was Bourke, it would be different; but these Durfee men are mad. The Commodore was never treated this way in his life before. And you’re a little nervous yourself, Paul. Be careful what you do. He’ll have lawyers around him—and he’s redhot, remember that.”

“I can’t quite agree with you, Tiffany. I think he’ll talk to me. But there’s one thing I’ve got to do first, and you can help me there.”

“For God’s sake, then, let me get into the game. I can’t stand this looking on—fretting myself to death.”

“I want you to take charge here for a day while I go after my firewood. I came pretty near being held up altogether for want of it. Bourke cut me off before Peet could get it through.”

“Where can you get it?”

“There’s a lot waiting for me off north of here.”

Tiffany grunted. “North of here, eh?”

Carhart nodded.

“And you have to work so delicate getting it that you can’t trust anybody else to do it?”

Carhart smiled. “Better not ask me, Tiffany. I can’t talk to Commodore Durfee until I’ve got all the cards in my hand, and this is the last one. As to going myself, it happens to be the sort of thing I won’t ask anybody to do for me, that’s all.”

“That’s how you like it,” said Tiffany, gruffly, rising. “Want to talk about anything else to-night?”

“No—I shan’t be leaving before to-morrow noon. I’ll see you in the morning.” While he spoke, he was watching Tiffany, and he was amused to see that the veteran had recovered his equilibrium and was angry with himself.

“When will you want to begin your military monkey-shines?”

Carhart drove back a smile, and got up. “Not until I get back here with the wood,” he replied. “Good night.”

Tiffany merely grunted, and marched off to the cot which had been assigned him.

At noon of the following day Carhart was ready to lead his expedition northward. It was made up of all Flint’s wagons, with two men on the seat and two rifles under the seat of each. And scattered along on both sides of the train were men picked from Flint’s bridge-builders and from Old Van’s and Scribner’s iron and tie squads. These men were mounted on fresh ponies, and they carried big holsters on their saddles and stubby, second-hand army carbines behind them. Dimond was there, too, and the long-nosed instrument man. The two or three besides the chief who knew what was soon to be doing kept their own counsel. The others knew nothing, but there was a sort of tingling electricity in the air which had got into every man of the lot. This much they knew; Mr. Carhart was very quiet and considerate and businesslike, but he had a streak of blue in him. And it is the streak of blue in your quiet, considerate leader which makes him a leader indeed in the eyes and hearts of those who are to follow him. Not that there were any heroics in evidence, rather a certain grim quiet, from one end of the wagon train to the other, which meant business. Carhart took it all in, as he cantered out toward the head of the line, dropping a nod here and there, and waving Byers, who was leaning on his pony’s rump and looking impatiently back, to start off. He had picked his men with care—he knew that he could trust them. And so, on reaching the leading wagon and pulling to a walk, he settled himself comfortably in his saddle and began to plan the conversation with Commodore Durfee which was to come next and which was to mean everything or nothing to Paul Carhart.

Once Byers, not observing his abstraction, spoke, “That was hard luck, Mr. Carhart, getting cut off from Sherman this way.”

“Think so?” the chief replied, and fell back into his study.

Byers looked puzzled, but he offered nothing further. Carhart was for a moment diverted along the line suggested by him of the long nose. “Hard luck, eh?” he was thinking. “It’s the first time in my life I was ever let alone. I only hope they won’t clean Bourke out and repair the wires before I get through.”

The white spot on Bourke’s long blueprint of the High, Dry, and Wobbly, to which was attached the name of “Durfee,” might have seemed, to the unknowing, a town or settlement. It was not. It was a station in the form of an unpainted shed, a few huts, and a water tank. Besides these, there were heaps of rails and ties and bridge timbers and all the many materials used in building a railroad. “The end of the track,” or rather “Mr. Bourke’s camp,” which marked the beginning of the end, lay some dozen miles farther west. Out there, men swarmed by the hundred, for work had by no means been discontinued on the H. D. & W. But here at “Durfee” there were only an operator, a train crew or so, a few section men, and a night watchman. And on that late evening when a train of wagons rolled along on well-greased wheels beside the track and stopped at the long piles of firewood which were stored there within easy reach of passing locomotives, all these worthy persons were asleep.

What few words passed among the invaders were low and guarded. Everything seemed to be understood. Of the two men on each wagon, one dropped his reins and stood up in the wagon-box, the other leaped to the ground and rapidly passed up armfuls of wood. Of the horsemen, three out of every four dismounted and ran off in a wide circle and took shelter in shadowed spots behind lumber piles, or dropped silently to the ground and lay there watching. Out on the track a deep-chested, hard-faced man, who might perhaps have answered to the name of “Dimond,” took up a post of observation. On that side of the circle nearest the station and the huts, two men who had the manner of some authority moved cautiously about. Both wore spectacles and one had a long nose. Through the still air came the champing of bits and the pawing and snorting of horses. The man with the spectacles and the less striking nose seemed to dislike these noises. He drew out a watch now and then, and held it up in the moonlight. The work was going on rapidly, yet how slowly! Once somebody dropped an armful of wood, and every man started at the sound.

The watchman upon whom devolved the responsibility of seeing that no prowling strangers walked off by night with the town of “Durfee” was meanwhile dreaming troublous dreams. From pastoral serenity these night enjoyments of his had passed through various disquieting stages into positive discord. They finally awoke him, and even assumed an air of waking reality. The queer, faint sounds which were floating through the night suggested the painful thought that somebody was walking off with the town of “Durfee.” He would investigate.

Slowly tiptoeing down an alleyway between two long heaps of material, the watchman settled his fingers around his heavy stick. Then he paused. The sounds were very queer indeed. He decided to drop his stick and draw his revolver. But this action, which he immediately undertook, was interrupted by a pair of strong arms which gripped him from behind. And a pair of hands at the end of two other strong arms abruptly stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth and held it in place by means of another which was tied at the back of his neck.

“Bring him along, boys,” said a low voice.

“All right, Mr. Carhart,” replied the owner of the first-mentioned arms,—and then could have bitten his tongue out, for the speaking eyes of the incapacitated watchman were fixed on the half-shadowed, spectacled face before him.

Ten minutes more and the wagon train, now heavily laden, was starting off. The horsemen lingered until it was fairly under way, then ran back to their mounts, and hovered in a crowd about the last dozen wagons until all danger of an attack was past. And later on, when they were something more than halfway back to Mr. Flint’s camp, they released the night watchman, and started him back on foot for “Durfee,” and hurled pleasantries after him for as long as he was within earshot.

It was necessary to drop another day before occupying the knolls, and Carhart spent most of it in sleep. He was not a man of iron, and the exertions of the week had been of an exhausting nature. But Tiffany, who had slept the sleep of the righteous throughout the night of the raiding expedition, took hold of the preparations with skill and energy. And after supper he and Carhart stood together on the high ground at the eastern end of the trestle and talked it over.

“Young Haddon seems to be a pretty good man to command one knoll,” said Tiffany, “but how about the other?”

“Byers could do it, possibly, but not so well as Dimond. The men like him, and while he’s a little rough-handed, he’s level-headed and experienced. I’ll take Byers to Red Hills with me. We can start out at nine, say. Each party will have to make a wide circuit around the hills and cross the stream a mile or two from here. It will be two or three hours before we get around to the knolls.”

“Would you use boats to ferry the boys over?”

“No. They saw too much of the start of my wagons yesterday. They would make out any movement on the river. You take the down party, Tiffany, with Haddon; I’ll go up with Dimond. Then you can leave Haddon in charge when you have him placed, and move about where you please.”

Not a man of either party knew where he was to go, but as was the case at the beginning of the movement on “Durfee,” voices were subdued and nerves were strung up. As soon as it was dark, men carrying rifles and with light rations stuffed into all available pockets—little men, middle-sized men, and big men, but all active and well-muscled—appeared here and there by ones and twos and threes, dodged out of the camp, and slipped through the hollow behind the trestle-end. There was little champing and pawing of horses to-night, for Carhart and Byers were the only ones to ride. The men lay or sat on the rocks and on the ground there behind the brow of the ridge, and talked soberly. Before long an inquisitive bridgeman counted a hundred and twenty of them, and still they were coming silently through the hollow. After a time Dimond appeared, then Haddon and Byers walking together, and, after a long wait, Tiffany and Carhart themselves. Then the five leaders grouped for a consultation. Those near by could see that Carhart was laying down the code that was to govern their conduct for a day or two. Something was said before the group broke up which drew an affirmative oath from Tiffany and started Haddon and Dimond examining their weapons, and stirred Byers to an excited question. Then Tiffany drew off a rod or so with Haddon at his heels, saying, “My boys, this way.” And as the word passed along man after man, to more than a hundred, sprang up and fell in behind him. Carhart beckoned to those who were left, fully an equal number of them, and these gathered together behind their chief.

“Good night, Tiffany,” said Carhart, then.

But Tiffany’s gruffness suddenly gave way. With a “wait a minute, boys,” he came striding over and took Carhart’s hand in a rough grip. “Good luck, Paul,” he said something huskily. And then he cleared his throat. “Good luck!” he said again, and went back to his men. And the two parties moved off over the broken ground and the rocks, Carhart and Byers leading their horses.

Carhart led his men nearly two miles north, then forded the stream at a point where it ran wide and shallow. He climbed the west ridge, and turned south along the farther slope. After twenty minutes of advancing cautiously he sent Dimond to follow the crest of the ridge and keep their bearings. Another twenty minutes and Dimond came down the slope and motioned them to stop.

“Is this the knoll ahead here?” asked the chief.

Dimond nodded.

“Quietly, then. Byers, you wait here with the horses.”

The same individual spirit which makes our little American army what it is, was in these workingmen. Every one understood perfectly that he must get to the top of that knoll as silently as the thing could be done, and acted accordingly. Orders were not needed. There were slopes of shelving rock to be ascended, there were bits of real climbing to be managed. But the distance was not very great, and it took but a quarter of an hour or so. Then they found themselves on the summit, and made themselves comfortable among the rocks, spreading out so that they could command every approach. Carhart took Dimond to the top of the southeasterly slope and pointed out to him the knoll opposite, the hollow between, the camp a third of a mile away of Flagg and his cheerful crew, the trestle, the river, and their own dim camp on the farther slope. He repeated his instructions for the last time. “Lie quiet until noon of the day after to-morrow—not a sound, understand; not so much as the top of a hat to show. It will be a hard pull, but you’ve got to do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At that time, if you hear nothing further from me, take your men down there along the slope, give Flagg one chance to withdraw, and if he refuses, close in across the hollow behind the rocks. Mr. Haddon will do the same. After that if they try to rush you, shoot. The men from camp will be working out across the trestle and up the hill at the same time.—Here it is, written down. Put it in your pocket. And mind, not a shot, not so much as a stone thrown, before noon of day after to-morrow, excepting in self-defence. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now come down the slope here, on the other side—where we can’t be seen from Flagg’s camp. You have your lantern?”

“Here.”

“Light it, and flash it once.”

Dimond obeyed. Both men peered across the hollow, but no response came from the other knoll.

“Flash it again.”

This time there came an answering flash. Carhart nodded, then took the lantern from Dimond, extinguished it, and handed it back. “Don’t light this again for any purpose,” he said. “Now see that you do exactly as I have told you. Keep your men in hand.”

“All right, sir.”

“Good night, then.”

Carhart groped his way along the hillside, slowly descending. After a time he whistled softly.

“Here—this way!” came in Byers’s voice.

They had to lead their horses nearly a mile over the plateau before they found the beaten track to Red Hills. Byers was jubilant. He was a young man who had dreamed for years of this moment. He had known not what form it would take, but that he should at some time be riding, booted and spurred, with a weight of responsibility on his shoulders, a fine atmosphere of daring about him, and the feeling within of a king’s messenger, this he had always known. And now here he was! And buoyant as an April day, the blood dancing in his veins, sitting his horse with the ease of an Indian, Byers called over to his chief: “Fine night this, Mr. Carhart!”

They were riding side by side. At his remark the chief seemed unconsciously to be pulling in. He fell behind. Byers, wondering a little, slowed down and looked around. Apparently his remark had not been heard. He called again: “Fine night, Mr. Carhart!” ... And then, in the moonlight, he caught a full view of the face of his leader. It was not the face he was accustomed to see about headquarters; he found in it no suggestion of the resourceful, energetic chief on whom he had come to rely as older men rely on blind forces. This was the face of a nervous, dispirited man of the name of Carhart, a man riding a small horse, who, after accomplishing relentlessly all that man could accomplish, had reached the point where he could do nothing further, where he must lay down his hand and accept the inevitable, whether for better or for worse. Byers could not, perhaps, understand what this endless night meant to Paul Carhart, but the sight of that face sobered him. And it was a very grave young man who turned in his saddle and peered out ahead and let his eyes rove along the dreary, moonlit trail.

A moment later he started a little, and hardly conscious of what he was doing, turned his head partly around and listened.

“Oh, my God,” Carhart was saying, as if he did not hear his own voice, “what a night!”

They pulled up before the Frisco Hotel at Red Hills. The time had come to throw the cards face up on the table.

“See to the animals yourself, will you, Byers?” said Carhart. He dismounted, patted the quivering shoulder of his little horse, and then handed the reins to his companion. “I don’t want to wear out Arizona too.”

Byers nodded, and Carhart walked up to the hotel steps. His eyes swept the veranda, and finally rested on two men who were talking together earnestly, and almost, it might seem, angrily, at one end. He had never seen either before; but one, the nearer, with the florid countenance and the side whiskers, he knew at once for Commodore Durfee. He paused on the steps, and tried to make out the other—a big, fat man with the trimmed, gray chin-beard, the hard mouth, and the shaven upper lip which we associate with pioneering days. It was—no—yes, it was—it must be—General Carrington.

Carhart had intended to take a room and make himself presentable. He changed his mind. Hot and dusty as he was, dressed almost like a cowboy, he walked rapidly down the piazza.

“Mr. Durfee?”

The magnate turned slowly and looked up.

“Well?” he inquired.

Carhart found his card-case and drew out one slip of cardboard. Mr. Durfee took it, read it, turned it over, read it again, hesitated, then handed it to the General, saying, in a voice the intent of which could hardly be misread, “What do you think of that?”

General Carrington read the name with some interest, and looked up. He said nothing, however; merely returned the card.

“You want to talk to me?” asked Durfee.

“If you please.”

“Well—talk ahead.”

Carhart glanced at General Carrington. He knew that the opportunity to have it out with Durfee in the presence of the biggest man of them all, the man who was the x in this very equation with which he was struggling, was a very great opportunity. Just why, he could hardly have said; and he had no time to figure it out in detail. So he leaped without looking. He drew up another of the worn porch chairs and made himself comfortable.

“A rascal named Jack Flagg,” he said, speaking with cool deliberation, “with a hundred or two hundred armed men, has thrown up what I suppose he would call intrenchments across our right of way at the La Paz River. Another party has attacked our line back at Barker Hills. This second party is commanded by Mr. Bourke, who is in charge of the construction work on your H. D. & W. I care nothing about Bourke, because Mr. De Reamer, who is at Sherman, is amply able to dispose of him. I have come here to ask you if you will consider ordering Flagg to get out of our way at the La Paz.”

He settled back in his chair, looking steadily into the florid countenance of the redoubtable Commodore Durfee. The two railway presidents were looking, in turn, at him, but with something of a difference between their expressions. Whether the General was amused or merely interested it would have been difficult for any but one who was accustomed to his manner to say. But there could be little doubt that the worldly experience of the Commodore was barely equal to the task of keeping down his astonishment and anger.

“This has nothing to do with me,” he replied shortly. “I know nothing of this Flagg.”

Carhart leaned a little forward. His eyes never left Durfee’s face. “Then,” he said, in that same measured voice, “if you know nothing of this Flagg, you don’t care what happens to him.”

“Certainly not,” replied the Commodore,—a little too shortly, this time, for he added, “I guess two hundred armed men behind intrenchments can take care of themselves.”

Carhart settled back again, and the shadow of a smile crossed his face. Both men were watching him, but he said nothing. And then General Carrington unexpectedly took a hand. “See here,” he said with the air of a man who sweeps all obstructions out of his way, “what did you come here for? What do you want?”

Carhart’s answer was deliberate, and was uttered with studied force. “I have ridden thirty miles to talk with Mr. Durfee and he sees fit to treat me like a d—n fool. I came here to see if we couldn’t avoid bloodshed. Evidently we can’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Carrington.

Instead of replying, Carhart, after a moment’s thought, turned inquiringly to Durfee.

“Out with it,” cried that gentleman. “What do you want?”

“I want you to call off Jack Flagg.”

“Evidently you are a d—n fool,” said Durfee.

But Carrington saw deeper. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, Mr. Carhart,” he said. “What is it?”

Again Carhart turned to Durfee. And Durfee said, “What is it?”

“It’s this.” Carhart drew from a pocket his sketch-map of the region about the trestle. “Here is Flagg—along this ridge, at the foot of these two knolls. His line lies, you see, across our right of way. Of course, everybody knows that he was sent there for a huge bluff, everybody thinks that I wouldn’t dare make real war of it. Flagg opened up the ball by shooting Flint, my engineer in charge at the La Paz. The shooting was done at night, when Flint was out in the valley looking things over, unarmed and alone.”

“What Flint is that?” asked Carrington, sharply.

“John B.”

“Hurt him much?”

“There is a chance that he will live.”

Carrington pursed his lips.

“We foresaw Bourke’s move,” Carhart pursued, “some time ago. And as it was plain that the mills in Pennsylvania—” he smiled a little here, straight into Durfee’s eyes—“and the Queen and Cumberland Railroad were planning to find it impossible to deliver our materials, we took up the rails and ties of the Paradise Southern and brought them out to the end of the track. In fact, we have our materials and supplies so well in hand that even if Bourke could hold Barker Hills, we are in a position to work right ahead. Track-laying is going on this minute. But we can’t cross the La Paz if Flagg doesn’t move.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Durfee.

“So it is necessary to make him move.”

“It is, eh?”

“Yes, and—” Carhart’s eyes were firing up; his right fist was resting in the palm of his left hand—“and we’re going to do it, unless you should think it worth while to forestall us. Possibly you thought I would send a force back to Barker Hills. But I didn’t—I brought it up this way instead. I have three times as many men as your Mr. Flagg has, and a third of them are on the knolls behind Flagg.”

“And the fighting comes next, eh?” said Carrington.

“Either Mr. Durfee will call Flagg off at once, or there will be a battle of the La Paz. I think you see what I am getting at, Mr. Durfee. Whatever the courts may decide, however the real balance of control lies now, is something that doesn’t concern me at all. That issue lies between you and my employer, Mr. De Reamer. But since you have chosen to attack at a point where I am in authority, I shan’t hesitate to strike back. It isn’t for me to say which side would profit by making it necessary for the governor and his militia to take hold, but I will say that if the governor does seize the road, he will find Mr. De Reamer in possession from Sherman to Red Hills. I am prepared to lose a hundred—two hundred—men in making that good. I have left orders for the shooting to begin at noon to-morrow. If you choose to give any orders, the news must reach Mr. Tiffany by that time. I shall start back at midnight, as my horse is tired, and I wish to allow plenty of time. You can find me here, then, at any time up to twelve o’clock to-night.” He rose. “That, Mr. Durfee, is what I came here to say.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Carhart,” said General Carrington. “Did I understand you to say that you have enough materials on the ground to finish the line?”

“Practically. Certainly enough for the present.”

“That’s interesting. Even to firewood, I suppose.”

Carhart bowed slightly. “Even to firewood,” he replied,—and walked away.

Byers was asleep in a chair, tipped back against the office wall. Carhart woke him, and engaged a room, where, after eating the meal which Byers had ordered, they could sleep all day.

That evening, as Carhart and Byers were walking around from the stable, they found General Carrington standing on the piazza.

“Oh, Mr. Carhart!” said he.

“Good evening, sir,” said Carhart.

The General produced a letter. “Would you be willing to get this through to Flagg?”

“Certainly.”

“Rather nice evening.”

“Very.”

“Suppose we sample their liquid here—I’m sorry I can’t say much for it. What will you gentlemen have?”

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Carhart, Byers, Dimond, and Tiffany stood on the north knoll.

“I’ll take it down,” said Byers, his eyes glowing through his spectacles on either side of his long nose.

“Go ahead,” said Carhart. “And good luck to you!”

The instrument man took the message and started down the hill. Halfway there was a puff of smoke from Flagg’s camp, and he fell. It was so peaceful there on the hillside, so quiet and so bright with sunshine, the men could hardly believe their eyes. Then they roused. One lost his head and fired. But Dimond, his eyes blazing, swearing under his breath, handed his rifle to Carhart and went running and leaping down the hillside. When he reached the fallen man, he bent over him and took the letter from his hand and, standing erect, waved it. Still holding it above his head, he went on down the hill and disappeared among the rocks that surrounded the camp.

Late that afternoon Flagg’s men straggled out through the hollow, bound for Red Hills. And every large rock on either hillside concealed a man and a rifle. Here and there certain rocks failed in their duty, and Flagg’s men caught glimpses of blue-steel muzzles. So they did not linger.

For a number of reasons, after an attempt to communicate by wire with a little New Hampshire town, and after an unavailing search for representatives of the clergy at La Paz and at Red Hills, it was decided to bury the instrument man where he had fallen. “Near the track,” Young Van suggested. “He would like it that way, I think.”

At six in the morning a long procession filed out of the camp. At the head went the rude coffin on the shoulders of six surveyors and foremen. Paul Carhart and Tiffany followed, the chief with a prayer book in his hand; and after them came the men. The grave was ready. The laborers and the skilled workmen stood shoulder to shoulder in a wide circle, baring their heads to the sun. Carhart opened the book and slowly turned the pages in a quiet so intense that the rustle of the leaves could be heard by every man there. For the ungoverned emotions of these broken outcasts were now swayed to thoughts of death and of what may come after.

“I am the resurrection and the life ...” Carhart read the immortal words splendidly, in his even, finely modulated voice. “... I know that my Redeemer liveth.... Yet in my flesh shall I see God.... We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out.... For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them.”

Gus Vandervelt raised his eyes involuntarily and glanced from one to another of the lustful, weak, wicked faces that made up the greater part of the circle.

“It is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.”

Could it be that these wretches were to be raised in incorruption? Was there something hidden behind each of these animal faces, something deeper than the motives which lead such men to work with their hands only that they may eat and drink and die?

“... for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For ... this mortal must put on immortality.”

At the conclusion of the service Young Van, deeply moved, looked about for his brother. But it seemed that the same impulse had come to them both, for he heard a gruff, familiar voice behind him:—

“Look here, Gus, don’t you think you’ve been sort of a d—n fool about this business?”

The young fellow wheeled around with a glad look in his eyes. He saw that his brother was scowling, was not even extending his hand, and yet he knew how much those rough words meant. “Yes,” he replied frankly, “I think I have.”

Old Van nodded, and they walked back to breakfast, side by side. Only once was the silence broken, when Gus said, with some slight hesitation: “What are you going to do next?—Coming back to Sherman with us?”

And Old Van turned his face away and looked off down the river and walked along for a few moments without replying. Then, “No,” he finally got out, “guess I’ll take a little vacation.” He paused, still looking away, and they strode on down the slope. “Going over into Arizona with an outfit,” he added huskily.