Carhart glanced at General Carrington. He knew that the opportunity to have it out with Durfee in the presence of the biggest man of them all, the man who was the _x_ in this very equation with which he was struggling, was a very great opportunity. Just why, he could hardly have said; and he had no time to figure it out in detail. So he leaped without looking. He drew up another of the worn porch chairs and made himself comfortable. “A rascal named Jack Flagg,” he said, speaking with cool deliberation, “with a hundred or two hundred armed men, has thrown up what I suppose he would call intrenchments across our right of way at the La Paz River. Another party has attacked our line back at Barker Hills. This second party is commanded by Mr. Bourke, who is in charge of the construction work on your H. D. & W. I care nothing about Bourke, because Mr. De Reamer, who is at Sherman, is amply able to dispose of him. I have come here to ask you if you will consider ordering Flagg to get out of our way at the La Paz.” He settled back in his chair, looking steadily into the florid countenance of the redoubtable Commodore Durfee. The two railway presidents were looking, in turn, at him, but with something of a difference between their expressions. Whether the General was amused or merely interested it would have been difficult for any but one who was accustomed to his manner to say. But there could be little doubt that the worldly experience of the Commodore was barely equal to the task of keeping down his astonishment and anger. “This has nothing to do with me,” he replied shortly. “I know nothing of this Flagg.” Carhart leaned a little forward. His eyes never left Durfee’s face. “Then,” he said, in that same measured voice, “if you know nothing of this Flagg, you don’t care what happens to him.” “Certainly not,” replied the Commodore,--a little too shortly, this time, for he added, “I guess two hundred armed men behind intrenchments can take care of themselves.” Carhart settled back again, and the shadow of a smile crossed his face. Both men were watching him, but he said nothing. And then General Carrington unexpectedly took a hand. “See here,” he said with the air of a man who sweeps all obstructions out of his way, “what did you come here for? What do you want?” Carhart’s answer was deliberate, and was uttered with studied force. “I have ridden thirty miles to talk with Mr. Durfee and he sees fit to treat me like a d--n fool. I came here to see if we couldn’t avoid bloodshed. Evidently we can’t.” “What do you mean by that?” asked Carrington. Instead of replying, Carhart, after a moment’s thought, turned inquiringly to Durfee. “Out with it,” cried that gentleman. “What do you want?” “I want you to call off Jack Flagg.” “Evidently you _are_ a d--n fool,” said Durfee. But Carrington saw deeper. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, Mr. Carhart,” he said. “What is it?” Again Carhart turned to Durfee. And Durfee said, “What is it?”