“Good. Do you know where the H. D. & W. is building down, a dozen or fifteen miles north of here?” “I guess I can find it,” said Dimond. And with a fresh horse and a man or two, and with certain specific instructions, Dimond rode north shortly after nightfall of that same day. At eight in the morning he was back, hollow-eyed but happy. And Paul Carhart, when Dimond had reported, was seen to smile quietly to himself. CHAPTER IX A SHOW-DOWN All was quiet at the main camp. Excepting that the division engineers were short-handed, and that Paul Carhart was away, things were going on with some regularity. Scribner rode in late on the second afternoon, and toward the end of the evening, when the office work was done, he and Young Van played a few rubbers of cribbage. The camp went to sleep as usual. At some time between eleven o’clock and midnight the two young engineers tacitly put up the cards and settled back for a smoke. “Do you know,” said Young Van, after a silence, “I don’t believe this stuff at all.” Scribner tipped back, put his feet on the table, puffed a moment, and slowly nodded. “Same here, Gus,” he replied. “Fairy tales, all of it.” “You can’t settle the ownership of a railroad by civil war.” “No; but if you can get possession by a five-barrelled bluff, you can give the other fellow a devil of a time getting it back.” “That’s true, of course.” They were silent again. ... “What’s that!” said Scribner. Both dropped their feet and sat up. “Horse,” said Young Van. “Devil of a way off.” “Must be. Lost it now.” “No--there it is again. Now, what do you suppose?” “Don’t know. Let’s step out and look around.” Standing on the sloping ground in front of the tent, they could at first distinguish nothing. “Gives you a queer feeling,” said Scribner, “horse galloping--this time of night--” “--just now,” Young Van completed, “when things are going on.” “Coming from the east, too,--where Bourke is. Know him?” “No--never met him. Heard of him, of course.” “He’s a good one. Wish he was on our side.” “I guess Mr. Carhart can match him.” Scribner nodded. “This sort of a fight’s likely to settle down into the plain question of who’s got the cards. There’ll come a time when both sides’ll have to lay down their hands, and the cards’ll make the difference one way or the other. Just a show-down, after all.” “I think myself Mr. Carhart’s got the cards. He didn’t look like a loser when he went off the other night.” “If he has,” said Scribner, “you can bet he’ll ‘see’ Durfee and Bourke every time.” ... “Here’s that horse, Harry.” “Big man--looks like--” “It’s Tiffany.--Good evening, Mr. Tiffany.” “How are you, boys? Paul here?” “Why, no, Mr. Tiffany. He’s up on ‘mile 109.’” “‘Mile 109!’” Tiffany whistled. “What the devil! You don’t mean that those--” he paused. “Commodore Durfee’s at Red Hills, you know,” said Young Van. “The ---- he is!” “And he’s sent a force to hold the west bank of the La Paz.”