One of the men pulled out his watch.
"Boys," he said, "if we stop here talking, there won't be much time left for a jag when we make the Butte. Are you going to let him bluff you?"
The growl from the others was ominous. They had been working long hours at high pressure in the rain, and had suffered in temper. One of them strode forward and grasped Farren's shoulder.
"Now," he demanded, "hand out! It's our money."
There was only one course open to Farren. His position was not an easy one, and if he yielded, his authority would be gone.
His left arm shot out and the man went down with a crash. Then the others closed with him and a savage struggle began.
Hardie laid hold of a man who had picked up an iron bar, and managed to wrest it from him, but another struck him violently on the head, and he had a very indistinct idea of what went on during the next minute or two. There was a struggling knot of men pressed against the side of the car, but it broke up when more figures came running up and one man cried out sharply as he was struck by a heavy lump of gravel. Then Hardie found himself kneeling beside Farren, who lay senseless near the wheels with the blood running down his set white face. Behind him stood the panting locomotive engineer, trying to hold back the growing crowd.
"Looks pretty bad," he said. "What's to be done with him?"
"We had better get him into his bunk," directed Hardie. "Then I'll make for the Butte as fast as I can and bring the doctor out."
"It would take two hours," objected the engineer, as he gently removed Farren's hat. "Strikes me as a mighty ugly gash; the thing must be looked to right away. If I let her go, throttle wide, we ought to make Carson in half an hour, and they've a smart doctor there." He said something to his fireman and added: "Get hold; we'll take him along."