"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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d," 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 a.s.sociate 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.