So he led off to the left, keeping in the shadow, and climbed between several lines of freight-cars, all empty, and finally came out behind the I.W.W.'s. Olsen led to within fifty yards of them, and was halted by some observant member of the gang who sat with the others on top of a flat-car. This man's yell stilled the coarse talk and laughter of the gang. "What's that?" shouted a cold, clear voice with authority in it. Kurt thought he recognized the voice, and it caused a bursting, savage sensation in his blood. "Here's a bunch of farmers with guns!" yelled the man from the flat-car. Olsen halted his force near one of the detached lines of box-cars, which he probably meant to take advantage of in case of a fight. "Hey, you I.W.W.'s!" he shouted, with all his might. There was a moment's silence. "There's no I.W.W.'s here," replied the authoritative voice. Kurt was sure now that he recognized Glidden's voice. Excitement and anger then gave place to deadly rage. "Who are you?" yelled Olsen. "We're tramps watchin' the fire," came the reply. "You set that fire!" "No, we didn't." Kurt motioned Olsen to be silent, as with lifting breast he took an involuntary step forward. "Glidden, I know you!" he shouted, in hard, quick tones. "I'm Kurt Dorn. I've met you. I know your voice.... Take your gang--get out of here--or we'll kill you!" This pregnant speech caused a blank dead silence. Then came a white flash, a sharp report. Kurt heard the thud of a bullet striking some one near him. The man cried out, but did not fall. "Spread out an' hide!" ordered Olsen. "An' shoot fer keeps!" The little crowd broke and melted into the shadows behind and under the box-cars. Kurt crawled under a car and between the wheels, from which vantage-point he looked out. Glidden's gang were there in the red glow, most of them now standing. The sentry who had given the alarm still sat on top of the flat-car, swinging his legs. His companions, however, had jumped down. Kurt heard men of his own party crawling and whispering behind him, and he saw dim, dark, sprawling forms under the far end of the car. "Boss, the hayseeds have run off," called the man from the flat car. Laughter and jeers greeted this sally. Kurt concluded it was about time to begin proceedings. Resting his revolver on the side of the wheel behind which he lay, he took steady aim at the sentry, holding low. Kurt was not a good shot with a revolver and the distance appeared to exceed fifty yards. But as luck would have it, when he pulled trigger the sentry let out a loud bawl of terror and pain, and fell off the car to the ground. Flopping and crawling like a crippled chicken, he got out of sight below.