The collision occurred at the southern end of the cut. It had for the men in the C. & S.C. train the additional force of unexpectedness. It was not violent, as railway collisions go, but the shock of it was enough to jerk the huddled, dozing men out of their seats, and to awaken them to a full consciousness that something had happened. In the stupefied hush which followed the crash they heard outside the train a chorus of shoutings,—derisive, blasphemous, triumphant. That completed their momentary demoralization; a panic swept them away, and the frenzied men fought each other in the effort to reach the car doors.

But the rush was checked as suddenly as it had begun. The first men to get through the doors had hardly leaped to the ground when they saw from the shadow of the cut the vicious spit of revolvers and heard the bullets singing unpleasantly over their heads. Where they stood the gray dawn made them perfectly visible, but the blackness of the cut screened their assailants and made it impossible to guess their numbers. About twenty men had got out of the C. & S.C. train when the volley was fired, and the celerity with which they scattered brought another cheer from Mallory's men intrenched in the cut.

Some of the fugitives scurried to the woods, while others struggled back into the cars. The shots had been heard inside the cars, and the rush to get out of them was succeeded by the impulse to lie down. The men were without leaders, without means of measuring the peril they were in or the force of their opponents, without knowledge of what was expected of them; and they lay cowering but angry in the barricaded cars, awaiting further developments.

There was no one to tell them what to do. Where were their leaders? The murmur ran through the line of cars that McNally and Wilkins had deserted them. For neither of them was on the train when the collision occurred.

McNally, standing on the Sawyerville platform near the rear end of his train, had already given the signal to go ahead when a man came out of the woods, hurried across the muddy road, ran down the platform, and clutching his arm said eagerly:—

“Mr. McNally, Wilkins wants you to come over here. We've caught one of them and he says he thinks it's the one you told him about.”

McNally turned and shouted to the engineer, “Hold on up there a minute”; but the cry was unheard, and the long train continued slowly toward the curve. Smith, who had just brought the report to McNally, started up the platform in pursuit, but McNally stopped him.

“Never mind,” he said. “They won't go far. Now tell me about this fellow you've caught. Where was he?”

“Right over here in the woods; it's only a little way. Wilkins wanted you should come over there.”

“Go ahead,” said McNally. “Show me the way.”

The two men crossed the road and entered the woods by the path. It was still as black as midnight under the trees, and they felt their way cautiously. Just north of the farmhouse they left the path and stepped into the crackling underbrush. They had gone but a few paces when they were stopped by the sound of a low whistle close by at their left.

“There they are,” said the guide.

McNally started to follow him, but hesitated and then whispered:—

“I'll wait here. Send Wilkins out to me, will you?”

When Wilkins appeared McNally stepped back a little and looked around nervously before he spoke.

“Can they hear us?”

Wilkins shook his head.

“How much did you tell that young fellow of our conversation?” questioned McNally.

“Smith? Nothing but just what he told you. I said I thought he was the man you told me about.”

“What does he look like?”

“Big man—straight dark hair. I took these out of his pockets.”

They were a handful of papers, and McNally took them eagerly. “That's something like,” he said.

It was too dark to make out anything, and he struck a match. The crackle was followed by another sound from the thicket, as though a man had moved suddenly and violently. McNally started and dropped the match, glancing suspiciously toward the spot whence the sound came.

“It's only the boys,” said Wilkins. “Here, I'll give you a light.”

As he sheltered the flickering match-light with his hands, McNally glanced over the papers. One of them he found by unfolding to be a map of the railroad. There were some memoranda, scrawled and unintelligible, and last of all, what appeared to be a note in a crumpled blue envelope, bearing a week-old postmark. He scrutinized it closely, and then rubbed his soft hands over it. There was the caricature of a smile on his face.

“That's all the light I need. He's the man.”

As Wilkins dropped the match, McNally turned a little and slipped the blue note into his pocket. Then he handed the other papers to Wilkins, saying:—

“Put them back where you found them. We don't want to rob him.”

In a moment, with lowered voice he went on:—

“I don't think it's necessary for me to give any further instructions. When you go back there just tell those men what we want. It's necessary that West shall be out of the game for the next day or two, that's all. I'll walk along toward the train, and when you get through with them follow me down the track. What force have they on the other train?”

“Not more than twenty men.”

“That simplifies—”

As he started to speak there came to his ears a splintering crash followed by a quick succession of shots.

McNally smiled. “The boys are rushing things,” he said. “I hope they aren't doing anything rash. I'll hurry along and pacify 'em. Follow me as soon as you can, will you?”

He turned to go, but Wilkins waited.

“Mr. McNally,” he said, “I guess you'd better attend to that West business yourself. I'll send one of those men to you, and take Smith down to the train with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess you can see what I mean all right,” said Wilkins. “I'd rather let you be responsible for any kidnapping.”

He did not wait for a reply, but hurried into the thicket, and nodding to one of the men who still held Harvey he said in a low tone:—

“You're wanted out there. Your partners can hold this chap all right.” Then with a gesture motioning Smith to follow, he felt his way through the woods and down the side of the cut to the track.

Once out of the shadow of the trees he could see plainly enough, for dawn was breaking fast. The rear end of his train was in sight, about a hundred yards up the track; the head of it was hidden by the curve. From the cut he could hear derisive shouts and cat-calls, but from his own train not a sound. Puzzled and a little alarmed, he broke into a run. He passed the rear cars and came around the curve in sight of the men in the cut.

“Get back there, you damned robber!” shouted one of them, and the command was followed by a shot.

The bullet went high over Wilkins's head, but it had its effect none the less. He sprang up the steps of the nearest car and threw himself against the door. It resisted his efforts, however, and from inside the car came another warning, for a gruff voice said:—

“Quit that, if you don't want to be blown full of holes.”

Wilkins stepped out of line of the door before he answered:—

“Let me in, you fool. It's me, Wilkins.”

The door opened slowly and he looked into the barrel of a levelled revolver, which was lowered when he was recognized. He looked about the crowded car in increasing amazement, the men shifting sullenly under his glance. At last he said:—

“What in hell are you men doing here? Scared to death, too; and by half a dozen men! Stand up now, and go out there and tie 'em up. It won't take you but a minute.”

There was an inarticulate growl of protest, and the man who had been guarding the door spoke:

“They've got us in a hole. We started to get off the train and they shot at us from the cut. They can pick us off like rabbits.”

Wilkins hesitated. He did not know whether or not the men in the cut would shoot to kill, but he saw that their position gave them a tremendous advantage in the first rush. He did not care to face the responsibility of ordering a charge that would prove too costly. After a moment he said:—

“It'll be all right if you all do it together. One of you speak to the men in the forward cars and I'll go back and do the same thing. Then when we give the signal make a rush.”

Wilkins went through toward the rear of the train, as he had said, but his object was to gain time and to wait for McNally. Then the responsibility could be shifted to where it belonged. When he reached the rear platform he saw McNally coming up the track. He hurried to meet him, and in a few words laid the situation before him.

McNally's upper lip drew away from his teeth as he heard it, but he spoke quietly.

“They've got us bluffed down, haven't they? But I guess it's about time we called them. They'll be pretty careful not to hit anybody with those guns of theirs. Have the men come through to the rear of the train and get off from this platform where they'll be screened by the curve. Then they can spread out through the woods and come down on 'em from the sides of the cut.”

Of course the odds were overwhelming; they were greater even than the numerical disparity would indicate, for the men in the cut were utterly exhausted. They had staked everything on their bluff and had been sustained for a time by seeing that it was succeeding. But at last Jawn, standing in the cab of his derailed locomotive, saw something that made him call quickly to Mallory.

“They've started,” he said.

“Where are they?”

“Comin' up through the woods.”

Mallory glanced quickly about and said, “We're flanked. There's no good in staying here, is there?”

“The baggage car'll hold together for a while, and the other train ought to be here now.”

“Well,” said Mallory, “we'll try it. Come on, boys, get to cover.”

The men climbed into the car, and Jawn and Mallory were discussing methods for defending it, when the fireman thought of something.

“How about Bill Jones?” he asked. “He's back with the flag. Ain't he liable to get snapped up?”

“He'll have to take his chances,” said Mallory.

“Hold on, though. It won't do for them to find him.”

He glanced out of the window and then ran out on the platform.

“There's time enough, I guess,” he muttered, turning and speaking into the car. “I'm goin' back with him.”

He disappeared, and Jawn quietly assumed command of the defences. “Don't do any shooting,” he said. “It won't help any in this mix-up. These are good to hit with,” and he showed a coupling pin he held in his hand.

When the preparations were made for the defence, and all the bulky articles in the car had been placed where they would be most in the way of an attacking party, the men waited. They were stupid with fatigue, and even the prospect of an immediate attack failed to arouse them; but they were still game, and though they lay about the floor in attitudes of utter exhaustion their sullen determination to hold the car was unmistakable.

At last a shower of stones came rattling about the car, and they heard the shouts of two hundred men who came charging down the banks into the cut. Jawn and his men breathed more freely now that the waiting was over, and drew themselves up with a spark of their old alertness. One man began singing, drumming on the car floor with a stick,—

“There'll be a hot time—”

And another, springing to his feet, took to balancing his loaded club, shifting it from finger to finger, and then catching it in his hand he struck quick and hard through the air to see where the grip was best.

Then they heard the sound of feet on the north platform, and some one tried the door. “Guess they're in here,” they heard him say.

“Guess you'll find that you're dead right about that,” observed the man who had been singing.

Jawn said no word, but waited with blazing eyes beside the door. He meant to strike the first blow with his coupling pin. There were two ineffectual thuds against the door and then a crash. The hinges started and one panel splintered inward. Another, and this time the door fell and a giant of a man, jerked off his balance by the sledge he had swung, staggered into the car. Jawn struck; the man's collarbone crackled under the coupling pin and he fell forward with a yell. Then over him and over the fallen door came the rush. The handful of defenders chose their corners and fought in them, each in his own way; some in a sort of hysteria, screaming curses, some striking silently, and one, the singer, with a laugh on his lips. When the fireman was struck senseless, this man fought over him until forced back by press of numbers, so that he no longer had room to strike.

The defence of the baggage car was over, and the defenders, disabled and disarmed, were submitting to the handcuffs or to the bits of rope which were used in securing them, when there came a sound of cheering, which made their captors leave them hastily and clamber from the car. The relief had come.

It came on the run, with Mallory at the head. There was no order, no pretence at formation; simply a stream of eager, angry men, some running through the cut along the tracks, others stumbling through the woods above, all animated by the desire to reach the scene of action as quickly as possible. And waiting for them was another mob of men, the main body of McNally's army. They were crowded in the cut on both sides of the train they had just captured, with the knowledge rankling in their hearts that they had been held at bay by a handful of determined men. They were glad they had somebody to fight.

The moment the two bodies of men came together the confusion became indescribable. The men had no means of distinguishing between friend and foe. They were at too close quarters to make fighting possible, and if it had been, no one would have known whom to strike and whom to defend. The cut was densely packed with men who strained and swayed and struggled and swore, but who could not by any possibility fight. But slowly the increasing weight of the new arrivals began to tell, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the mass began to move south. Eventually they would push out of the cut to the open, where they could discuss matters more satisfactorily.

In the excitement they did not hear the long train that came clanking up from the south and stopped just behind the C. & S.C. train. But a moment later the uproar ceased, as sounded high and clear the echoing bugles, “Forward, Fours left into line, March!” Looking, they saw six companies of the National Guard come swinging across the open, the horizontal rays of the rising sun gilding their fixed bayonets.

There was no need for shot or bayonet thrust, the mob was quiet. McNally, as he stood panting in the thickest of the crowd, knew what it meant. The time for violence was over; his army had outlived its usefulness. And he knew that however the fight for the M. & T. was to be won, this was the beginning of the end.