Again that night he rode to Crawfordsville. He thought that the telegraph agent grinned maliciously as he tossed a yellow envelope upon the counter.
"Sign here, Mr. Conniston," he said.
Conniston signed and, stepping outside, read the words which drove a groan to his lips:
"William Conniston, Jr.,
"General Supt., Crawford Reclamation, Crawfordsville.
"No success yet. May have to go to St. Louis for the money. Hope to have men in four or five days.
"John W. Crawford."
He did not see Jocelyn Truxton in front of the post-office as he rode past, did not see Hapgood come out of the two-story building and join her. He saw only the days which were rushing down upon him, offering him a broken, blunt weapon to fight a giant.
Never once had Conniston doubted as he doubted now. Never before had all glint of hope been lost in rayless blackness. If he had the five hundred men, if he had them now, there was a fighting chance. But if he must wait another week before they came—