John counted fourteen men from the two other machines. They walked silently along a dusty, narrow path breaking off from the road until they reached a point where the steep slope of a hill confronted them. "Now, boys, everyone understands what is to be done?" asked the man from the automobile that had carried the reporters and who John realized was in command. The men nodded. "Then scatter out the way we've planned it and remember, we close in on them when Gibson gives the signal, not before." A queer, nervous feeling gripped the pit of John's stomach as he followed with Benton and Brennan behind the man who led them up the hill as the others branched out in pairs through the brush, spreading out in a semi-circle. "They each have their stations," the man told Brennan. "They know what to do." Reaching the crest of the hill they swung down the embankment to their right and stopped behind a clump of bushes. Below them, a hundred feet down, John made out the railroad track. To the left they looked down into a deep gully. On the other side of the track was a deep ravine, dropping abruptly from the roadbed. "They'll wait down there," the detective explained, pointing to the gully. "He'll put the derailer on the track so as to throw the cars over to the other side in that ditch." He squatted down behind the clump of bushes and the others followed his example. John looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight. "It's due here at 8:18," said the detective. "I'd give ten years of my bright young life for a cigarette," said Brennan, sighing heavily. The detective produced a thick moist plug of chewing tobacco, gnawed at the corners. "Here you are," he said, offering it to the sufferer. "Don't, don't," said Brennan, waving it aside. "I'd swallow it sure." John felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Try as he might he could not stop himself from breathing in quick, short little gasps. This detective and his men were so certain about things. How did they know but something might have gone wrong? Perhaps Gibson and "Red Mike" were "shooting it out" along the road somewhere now. He looked again at his watch. It was three minutes to eight. Only seven minutes had passed since they arrived. Incredulous he held the watch to his ear. It was ticking regularly. Benton pulled himself on his elbows to John's side. "You may talk o' gin and beer, When you're quartered safe out 'ere--" he began. "That's enough of that," ordered Brennan, and Benton's chant stopped. The detective raised himself to his knees and held his head high, listening. The roar of a motor being raced as it was switched off came to their ears. "That's them," said the detective. "That was Gibson's signal. He was driving and he raced his engine to let us know when they got here."