"Five minutes more; and they are on the way down--there they come." Kent looked and saw a group of six men making for the nearest exit in the grille. Then he smote his fist into his palm. "Damn!" he muttered; "they've got the vice-president of the Overland with them! That's bad." "It's bad for Mr. Callafield," growled M'Tosh. "We're in too deep now to back down on his account." Kent moved nearer and stood in the shadow of the gate-keeper's box, leaving M'Tosh, who was on the track platform, free to show himself. From his new point of espial Kent checked off the members of the party. When Major Guilford left it to come back for a word with M'Tosh, there were five others: the governor, his private secretary, Hawk, Halkett, the general superintendent, and the Overland's vice-president. "All ready, M'Tosh?" said the receiver. "Ready and waiting, Major," was the bland reply. "Who is our engineer?" "Patrick Callahan." "That wild Irishman? The governor says he'd as soon ride behind the devil." "Callahan will get you there," said the train-master, with deliberate emphasis. Then he asked a question of his own. "Is Mr. Callafield going with you?" "No. He came down to see us off. How is the fast mail to-night?" "She's just in--an hour and thirty-five minutes late." The major swore pathetically. He was of the generation of railway officials, happily fast passing, which cursed and swore itself into authority. "That's another five hundred dollars' forfeit to the Post-office Department! Who's taking it west?" "Tischer." "Give him orders to cut out all the stops. If he is more than fifty-five minutes late at Bighorn, he can come in and get his time." Tischer had just got the word to go, and was pulling out on the yard main line. "I'll catch him with the wire at yard limits," said M'Tosh. Then: "Would you mind hurrying your people a little, Major? The express is due to leave." Guilford was a heavy man for his weight, and he waddled back to the others, waving his arms as a signal for them to board the car. Kent saw the vice-president of the Overland Short Line shake hands with Bucks and take his leave, and was so intent upon watching the tableau of departure that he failed to notice the small boy in Western Union blue who was trying to thrust a telegram, damp from the copying rolls, into his hand. "It's a rush, sir," said the boy, panting from his quick dash across the track platforms. It was Ormsby's message from Breezeland; and while Kent was trying to grasp the tremendous import of it, M'Tosh was giving Callahan the signal to go. Kent sprang past the gate-keeper and gave the square of damp paper to the train-master. "My God! read that!" he gasped, with a dry sob of excitement. "It was our chance--one chance in a million--and we've lost it!"