Pooley noted the cringe, and his nostrils lifted slightly. He spoke definitely. "There's no hard feelin' about this, Dawson? You understand that----" "Yes, I understand." The sudden burst of anger had gone; there was a vast patience in every syllable. "I understand; you needn't explain." He turned dispassionately to the others. "Now, boys, what's the reports for to-day?" The work was finally done; they started out. At the door they were stopped by half a dozen newspaper men, who had been held up by the doorman until the conference was over. "Anything special for to-morrow, Mr. Dawson?" The big miner grinned amicably. "You might say everything's coming our way. With twenty two hundred men out, and five of the mines stopped, things are lookin' up." The reporter for the _Advertiser_ pushed out a question. "Did you advise violence in stopping these workers from the North?" "Good God, no, man! That's the very thing I'm fighting against. You heard me--in every speech. We're law abiding. If there's any lawbreaking to be done, let the companies do it." He smiled grimly. "They're itching for us to give 'em an excuse to bring on the militia, as they did in '04, when they massacred the miners. They'll fail; we'll fight within the law." He scribbled vigorously. "Is it true you were driven out of Montana and West Virginia, and almost lynched in Michigan?" Dawson's neck swelled, his eyes smouldered. "Yes, it's true, every bit of it. And I was driven out of this state in '04. I expect it in my business. You might say things is changing, and it may be Mr. Paul Judson who's driven out next time." There was a chorus of appreciation from the committee. "I guess that's all." One reporter--it was Charley Brant, of the _Register_--called Pelham aside. "Gotten any word from the mountain recently ... to-night?" "No; why?" "That trainload of workers is arriving; there's trouble, rioting or something." "Are you sure?" Excitement blazed in his face. "Tell John Dawson so." He called him over at once. "We got a phone message from a man on the ground. It's on the mineral line, halfway between Mr. Judson's house and the viaduct, if you know where that is. Our man said it was serious." "I'm going." Dawson sliced his words off briskly. "Use my car; it's quicker," snapped Pelham. Jensen, McGue, Dawson, and the reporter got inside; two others of the committee hung to the running boards. Pelham drove at top speed out the Thirty-Eighth Street road, and circled around the crest. "I know the place," he explained. "We'd better come up from behind, if anything's doing. They might stop us." He turned from the county road to a cool country lane cutting through tall long-leaf pine, in the middle of Shadow Valley. The car's lights danced unreally on the crowding trunks ahead, the wheels slipped and skidded over the sprinkling of carpeting needles. He whisked to the right, and took the hill toward the mountain. They had heard no noise as yet.