“You mean you think the strikers did it?” asked Allan, quickly. “I don’t suppose anybody’s doin’ it fer their health.” “But if that’s their game, what’s to prevent them from blowing up a bridge or culvert somewhere out on the line any time they want to? We can’t guard the whole right of way.” “There ain’t a thing on earth to prevent them,” answered Stanley, cheerfully. “You know as well as I do, that there never is any thing to prevent any tramp or bum or scoundrel blowin’ up a bridge at any time—but they never do—at least, mighty seldom, though to hear some of ’em talk, you’d think all they wanted was half a chance t’ blow up the whole world. So I don’t look for anything of that sort now. In the first place, scoundrels of that kind won’t operate far from a base of supplies, which means a grog-shop. An’ in the second place, they’ve got to operate in a mob, for they’re the biggest cowards on earth—and that means a big town. I take back what I said a while ago. I don’t think the strikers put that bomb on the bridge—I think it was some Russian or Italian anarchist from the Parkersburg coal mines or steel works. There’s plenty of ’em there. An’ I ain’t so dead sure they started the stock-yards fire, either. I had a talk with Simpson, their special delegate, yesterday, and he seems to be a pretty decent sort of feller. I really believe he’s tryin’ to prevent trouble, and I could see that he was considerable down in the mouth about the strike. I think he’s gittin’ cold feet and would be glad to back out, if he could. I figger it out this way—the brotherhood’s split up. The old, conservative men, headed by Simpson, want to avoid trouble; the young, hot-headed ones, headed by Bassett, are sp’ilin’ for a fight. And they’re roundin’ up all the toughs they can find to help them.” “Well,” said Allan, with a sigh of relief, “they won’t be able to find many here to help them, and that’s a blessing!” “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Stanley; “but I don’t think there’ll be any trouble here—not for a few days, anyway.” “A few days?” echoed Allan. “What do you mean by that?” “I mean,” answered Stanley, slowly, “that I don’t like the looks of things. There’s too many strangers in town.” “Too many strangers?” “Yes—too many strangers. Why, the saloons are full of the toughest lookin’ lot of men you ever saw. Where’d they come from—that’s what I want to know—and what’s their business—and who’s payin’ for their whiskey?” “I don’t understand you yet, Stanley,” said Allan, a little impatiently. “Tell me straight out what you’re afraid of.” “I’m afraid that them fellers are bein’ brought in here to cause trouble,” answered Stanley, bluntly. “And I believe that Bassett’s at the bottom of the whole thing. And furthermore I believe he’s got that little devil of a Hummel helpin’ him.” “Hummel? Have you seen him?”