They were riding side by side. At his remark the chief seemed unconsciously to be pulling in. He fell behind. Byers, wondering a little, slowed down and looked around. Apparently his remark had not been heard. He called again: “Fine night, Mr. Carhart!” ... And then, in the moonlight, he caught a full view of the face of his leader. It was not the face he was accustomed to see about headquarters; he found in it no suggestion of the resourceful, energetic chief on whom he had come to rely as older men rely on blind forces. This was the face of a nervous, dispirited man of the name of Carhart, a man riding a small horse, who, after accomplishing relentlessly all that man could accomplish, had reached the point where he could do nothing further, where he must lay down his hand and accept the inevitable, whether for better or for worse. Byers could not, perhaps, understand what this endless night meant to Paul Carhart, but the sight of that face sobered him. And it was a very grave young man who turned in his saddle and peered out ahead and let his eyes rove along the dreary, moonlit trail. A moment later he started a little, and hardly conscious of what he was doing, turned his head partly around and listened. “Oh, my God,” Carhart was saying, as if he did not hear his own voice, “what a night!” * * * * * They pulled up before the Frisco Hotel at Red Hills. The time had come to throw the cards face up on the table. “See to the animals yourself, will you, Byers?” said Carhart. He dismounted, patted the quivering shoulder of his little horse, and then handed the reins to his companion. “I don’t want to wear out Arizona too.” Byers nodded, and Carhart walked up to the hotel steps. His eyes swept the veranda, and finally rested on two men who were talking together earnestly, and almost, it might seem, angrily, at one end. He had never seen either before; but one, the nearer, with the florid countenance and the side whiskers, he knew at once for Commodore Durfee. He paused on the steps, and tried to make out the other--a big, fat man with the trimmed, gray chin-beard, the hard mouth, and the shaven upper lip which we associate with pioneering days. It was--no--yes, it was--it _must_ be--General Carrington. Carhart had intended to take a room and make himself presentable. He changed his mind. Hot and dusty as he was, dressed almost like a cowboy, he walked rapidly down the piazza. “Mr. Durfee?” The magnate turned slowly and looked up. “Well?” he inquired. Carhart found his card-case and drew out one slip of cardboard. Mr. Durfee took it, read it, turned it over, read it again, hesitated, then handed it to the General, saying, in a voice the intent of which could hardly be misread, “What do you think of that?” General Carrington read the name with some interest, and looked up. He said nothing, however; merely returned the card. “You want to talk to me?” asked Durfee. “If you please.” “Well--talk ahead.”