The same individual spirit which makes our little American army what it is, was in these workingmen. Every one understood perfectly that he must get to the top of that knoll as silently as the thing could be done, and acted accordingly. Orders were not needed. There were slopes of shelving rock to be ascended, there were bits of real climbing to be managed. But the distance was not very great, and it took but a quarter of an hour or so. Then they found themselves on the summit, and made themselves comfortable among the rocks, spreading out so that they could command every approach. Carhart took Dimond to the top of the southeasterly slope and pointed out to him the knoll opposite, the hollow between, the camp a third of a mile away of Flagg and his cheerful crew, the trestle, the river, and their own dim camp on the farther slope. He repeated his instructions for the last time. “Lie quiet until noon of the day after to-morrow--not a sound, understand; not so much as the top of a hat to show. It will be a hard pull, but you’ve got to do it.” “Yes, sir.” “At that time, if you hear nothing further from me, take your men down there along the slope, give Flagg one chance to withdraw, and if he refuses, close in across the hollow behind the rocks. Mr. Haddon will do the same. After that if they try to rush you, shoot. The men from camp will be working out across the trestle and up the hill at the same time.--Here it is, written down. Put it in your pocket. And mind, not a shot, not so much as a stone thrown, before noon of day after to-morrow, excepting in self-defence. Understand?” “Yes, sir.” “Now come down the slope here, on the other side--where we can’t be seen from Flagg’s camp. You have your lantern?” “Here.” “Light it, and flash it once.” Dimond obeyed. Both men peered across the hollow, but no response came from the other knoll. “Flash it again.” This time there came an answering flash. Carhart nodded, then took the lantern from Dimond, extinguished it, and handed it back. “Don’t light this again for any purpose,” he said. “Now see that you do exactly as I have told you. Keep your men in hand.” “All right, sir.” “Good night, then.” Carhart groped his way along the hillside, slowly descending. After a time he whistled softly. “Here--this way!” came in Byers’s voice. They had to lead their horses nearly a mile over the plateau before they found the beaten track to Red Hills. Byers was jubilant. He was a young man who had dreamed for years of this moment. He had known not what form it would take, but that he should at some time be riding, booted and spurred, with a weight of responsibility on his shoulders, a fine atmosphere of daring about him, and the feeling within of a king’s messenger, this he had always known. And now here he was! And buoyant as an April day, the blood dancing in his veins, sitting his horse with the ease of an Indian, Byers called over to his chief: “Fine night this, Mr. Carhart!”