“Me,” said a stocky Dane.
“There’ll be nobody there but a watchman or so. Take ten men and make for town. Land on that roundhouse at eleven o’clock. Hitch on to the trucks and scoot for the woods with them. Pick your own men and start now. The rest of us hike across lots to Camp One. You didn’t forget peavey handles, I see.” Jim grinned down at them and leaped from his buggy.
The parties separated, one moving townward, the other into the woods in the direction of the Diversity Company’s cuttings. With the latter went Jim.
They marched through the moonlit woods gaily as to a merrymaking, but withal as silently as such men could march. They jostled one another, slyly tripped one another, found delight in holding down springy saplings so they would spring back to switch the ears of the man coming behind. It was a picnic of big boys—which would be no picnic when they stripped and got down to business.
For half an hour they stumbled along. An unexpected voice called from the obscurity ahead.
“Mr. Ashe.”
“What is it?” Jim demanded. He knew here was none of his own men; wondered who else was abroad in the woods at that time of night. “Who is it?”
“Gilders,” said the man, stepping into view. The rifle, which seemed as much a part of his usual costume as his floppy hat, was under his arm. He stopped, was surrounded by Jim’s lumberjacks.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” Jim demanded.
“I am here—many places—at what time of night is best,” said Gilders. “Night or day—what’s the difference?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I cut across from town to catch you. Moran’s warned. He’s got a dozen men at the roundhouse. They’ve telephoned the camps.”