At length a man was killed, one of pile-driver crew No. 1, on Old Van’s division. Other men had been killed earlier in the work, but this death struck the workmen as bearing greater significance. In the other cases Carhart himself had done all that man could do; the last time he had driven the body twenty miles to a priest and decent burial. But Old Van sent out a few nerve-shaken laborers to dig a grave, and told them to waste no time about it, beyond seeing that it was well filled after--afterward. * * * * * For several nights after the trouble with Foulk Charlie did not sleep at all. But even a frontiersman is subject to Nature’s laws, and the time came when he was overcome, shortly after midnight, while sitting on a box before his tent, and he rolled over and slept like a child. They woke him at daybreak, and, without a word, handed him this rough placard:-- Tell Mr. Carhart he’d better be carrying a gun after this. He’ll need it. JACK FLAGG. “It was stuck up on the telegraph pole,” explained a sleepy-eyed sentinel. “Where?” “Here in camp.” A few moments later the cook, pale under his tan, stood before his half-dressed acting-chief. Again the two brothers were together. “So this is how you watch things, is it?” said Old Van. “What did you lose for us last night?” “The drivers are counting up now, sir. I only know of a mule and a horse so far.” “That’s all you know of, is it? I’ll tell you what to do. You go back to your quarters and see that you do no more meddling in this business. No, not a word. Go back and get your breakfast. That’s all I expect from you after this.” Charlie looked inquiringly at Young Van, who merely said: “I want to know more about this, Charlie. Run it down, and then come to me.” When the cook had gone, Young Van picked up the placard and read it over. He was struck by the bravado of the thing. And he wondered how much of a substratum of determination Jack Flagg’s bravado might have. This primitive animal sort of man was still new to him. He had neither Paul Carhart’s unerring instinct, nor his experience in handling men. To him the incident seemed grave. There would be chances in plenty before they reached Red Hills for even a coward to get in a shot, and a coward’s shot would be enough to bring the career of their chief to an abrupt end. He folded the dirty paper and put it into his pocket. Later, with the best of intentions, he said to his brother: “You are altogether too hard on Charlie. I happen to know that he has been doing everything any man could do without a troop of regulars behind him.” To his surprise, Old Van replied with an angry outburst: “You keep out of this, Gus! When I need your advice in running this division, I’ll ask you for it.” Twenty minutes later, when they were rising from breakfast, Charlie appeared, leading with an iron grip a dissolute-looking plainsman, and carrying a revolver in his other hand.