Each day, too, the feud between the dives at Big Cloud and Bridge Gang No. 3, fanned by the crews of the construction trains, who taunted McGuire and the men with cowardice, grew stronger. For the trainmen, having no idea of disregarding Burton’s orders and allowing the bridge men to ride down on the empties, rubbed it in until the gang writhed under their gibes. Munford did not come in for much of this personally. The trainmen, none of them, seemed to display any particular hankering for discussing the question in his presence; but he got it second-hand from McGuire and the gang. The outcome of it all was a decision one night after supper to board the construction train the following evening, Burton, the train crew and the company to the contrary, and go down to Big Cloud if they had to run the train themselves. Munford concurred in the decision by blowing very gently on his knuckles. It looked bad for the peace and quiet of Big Cloud; and it looked bad for Burton’s standing with the company. Munford, as commander-in-chief, and McGuire, as chief of staff, withdrew from the circle and strolled off by themselves to perfect their plans for the next day’s campaign, taking the trail in the direction of Big Cloud--a trail still called, but now a passable road due to the traffic incident to the building of the Hill Division, whose right of way it paralleled from Big Cloud to the ford at Twin Bear Creek. At the end of a quarter of a mile the two men sat down on a felled tree by the side of the trail to talk. Some ten minutes had passed when McGuire, in the midst of a graphic description of what they would do to Pete McGonigle and the rest, suddenly stopped and gripped Munford tightly by the shoulder. “Keep mum,” he cautioned. “There’s someone comin’!” In the bright moonlight they could make out the figure of a man about a hundred yards down the road coming toward them from the camp. “He walks like Burton,” whispered McGuire. “What the devil is he followin’ us for? Get back into the trees and let him pass.” They moved noiselessly a little deeper into the wood that fringed the road, and lying flat, watched the man who was approaching. “It’s Burton,” McGuire announced at last. Munford grunted assent. “He’s been followin’ us all right, and now he’s goin’ to wait for us to come back,” continued McGuire, as Burton halted within a few yards of them and sat down to smoke. “Well, we’ll give him a run for his money. He can wait a while, I’m thinkin’.” Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. McGuire began to tire of his self-selected game of hide and seek, “Come on,” said he, “let’s go out and see what he wants.” “Wait,” Munford answered. “There’s someone comin’ from Big Cloud way. It’s not us Burton’s after. Listen!” There was the faint beat of horse’s hoofs gradually drawing nearer. Then presently rider and horse loomed out of the shadows and Burton, getting up, stepped out into the middle of the road.