The day was passing, and as the evening approached the train was running through a wilder, heavily-wooded country. Shorty's companions took their seats on the opposite side of the car and peered anxiously out of the window to recognize features of the darkening landscape. They were evidently getting near their destination.
Shorty overheard the "Captain" say to his partner:
"The train'll stop for water in the middle of a big beech woods. We'll get off there and take a path that leads right to the lodge."
"How far'll we have to tote these heavy carpetbags?" grumbled the other.
Shorty slipped his hand into his pocket, grasped his revolvers and eased them around so that he could be certain to draw them when he wanted to. He was determined that those men should not leave the train before the stopping place arranged for his fellow-soldiers. He felt confident of being able to handle the two, but did not know how many confederates might be in waiting for them.
"I'll go it if there's a million of 'em," said he to himself. "I'll save these two fellers anyway, if there's any good in 45-caliber bullets in their carcasses. I'm jest achin' to put a half-ounce o' lead jest where that old scoundrel hatches his devilment."
The engine whistled long and shrilly.
"That's the pumpin'-station," said the "Captain," rising and laying hold of the handles of the carpetbag.
"Drop that. You can't leave this car till I give the word," said Shorty, rising as the train stopped, and putting himself in the door.
"Can't, eh?" said the "Captain," with a look of rage as he comprehended the situation. His dirk came out and opened with a wicked snap. "I'll cut your black heart out, you infernal spy."