Of course the odds were overwhelming; they were greater even than the numerical disparity would indicate, for the men in the cut were utterly exhausted. They had staked everything on their bluff and had been sustained for a time by seeing that it was succeeding. But at last Jawn, standing in the cab of his derailed locomotive, saw something that made him call quickly to Mallory. “They've started,” he said. “Where are they?” “Comin' up through the woods.” Mallory glanced quickly about and said, “We're flanked. There's no good in staying here, is there?” “The baggage car'll hold together for a while, and the other train ought to be here now.” “Well,” said Mallory, “we'll try it. Come on, boys, get to cover.” The men climbed into the car, and Jawn and Mallory were discussing methods for defending it, when the fireman thought of something. “How about Bill Jones?” he asked. “He's back with the flag. Ain't he liable to get snapped up?” “He'll have to take his chances,” said Mallory. “Hold on, though. It won't do for them to find him.” He glanced out of the window and then ran out on the platform. “There's time enough, I guess,” he muttered, turning and speaking into the car. “I'm goin' back with him.” He disappeared, and Jawn quietly assumed command of the defences. “Don't do any shooting,” he said. “It won't help any in this mix-up. These are good to hit with,” and he showed a coupling pin he held in his hand. When the preparations were made for the defence, and all the bulky articles in the car had been placed where they would be most in the way of an attacking party, the men waited. They were stupid with fatigue, and even the prospect of an immediate attack failed to arouse them; but they were still game, and though they lay about the floor in attitudes of utter exhaustion their sullen determination to hold the car was unmistakable. At last a shower of stones came rattling about the car, and they heard the shouts of two hundred men who came charging down the banks into the cut. Jawn and his men breathed more freely now that the waiting was over, and drew themselves up with a spark of their old alertness. One man began singing, drumming on the car floor with a stick,-- “There'll be a hot time--” And another, springing to his feet, took to balancing his loaded club, shifting it from finger to finger, and then catching it in his hand he struck quick and hard through the air to see where the grip was best. Then they heard the sound of feet on the north platform, and some one tried the door. “Guess they're in here,” they heard him say. “Guess you'll find that you're dead right about that,” observed the man who had been singing.