Part 26 (1/2)

”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 accomplis.h.i.+ng 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.