“No,” responded the officer, “and it will be our duty to see that they do not do so. Our scouts inform us, however, that the advance on the city is to be made before noon to-day, so that we have no time to lose. I must marshal my forces at the Hill of the Ten Saints.”
The Dreadnought Boys recalled, as he mentioned the name, the location he referred to. It was a small hill outside the city to the north, the value of which, as a strategic position, was at once apparent. Nestling close in under the mighty ramparts of the Sierras themselves, it commanded the northern approach to the city perfectly.
“The battle, if there is one, will resolve itself into a struggle for the possession of that hill,” explained the colonel. “The troops that arrive there first will win the day”—and his brow clouded—“unless the insurgent navy arrives and bombards the city from the sea.”
“Do not worry about that, sir,” Stark assured him. “The navy will not be there.”
“Indeed, you are in possession——”
“Of positive information.”
“Its source, senor?”
“That I cannot divulge. But I can assure you that the navy will not be there.”
The colonel looked at him curiously.