“Yes,” Carhart said slowly, “it’s a very good bluff. Commodore Durfee knows well enough that this sort of business can never settle the real question. But the question of who gets to Red Hills first is another thing altogether. The spectacle of Jack Flagg and a well-armed regiment of desperadoes in front of them, and the knowledge that the Commodore himself had organized the regiment and sent it out, would stop some engineers.” Tiffany leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and gazed moodily out across the valley. He had been riding hard for four days, with not enough food and water and scarcely any sleep. Only one night of the four had found him on a cot--the other nights had been passed on the ground. In the resulting physical depression his mind had taken to dwelling on the empty chamber in his revolver--he wished he knew more of what that leaden ball had accomplished. And now here was John Flint shot down by a hidden enemy. It was the ugliest work he had been engaged in for years. When he finally spoke, he could not conceal his discouragement. “How about this engineer here, Paul?” he said, still looking out there over the valley. “Will the regiment and Commodore Durfee stop you?” “I hope not,” said Carhart. “You’re going to fight, then--until the governor calls out the state troops, and throws us all out, and there’s hell to pay?” “I don’t think so. I’m going to get ready to fight.” “By putting your men on those two knolls?” “Yes.” “And then what?” “Then I’m going to Red Hills.” “To Red Hills!” Tiffany sat up. There was more life in his voice. “Yes.” Carhart laughed a little. “Why not?” Tiffany half turned and looked earnestly into the face of this unusual man. The spectacles threw back the moonlight and concealed the eyes behind them. The lower part of the face was perhaps a trifle leaner than formerly. The mouth was composed. Tiffany found no answer there to the question in his own eyes. So he put it in words: “What are you going to do there, Paul?” “See Commodore Durfee.” “See--! Look here, do you know how mad he is? Do you think he came clear down here from New York, and shoved his old railroad harder than anybody but you ever shoved one before and hired the rascals that shot John Flint,--him playing for the biggest stakes on the railroad table to-day,--do you think he’ll feel like talking to the man who’s put him to all this trouble?” “Well,” Carhart hesitated,--“I hope he will.” “But it’s foolhardy, Paul. You won’t gain anything. Just the sight of you walking into the Frisco House office may mean gun play. If it was Bourke, it would be different; but these Durfee men are mad. The Commodore was never treated this way in his life before. And you’re a little nervous yourself, Paul. Be careful what you do. He’ll have lawyers around him--and he’s redhot, remember that.” “I can’t quite agree with you, Tiffany. I think he’ll talk to me. But there’s one thing I’ve got to do first, and you can help me there.”