“The scoundrels!” he murmured. “I'm on to them! Cardigan is playing the game with them. That's why he bought those rails from the old Laurel Creek spur! Oh, the sly young fox—quoting that portion of our hauling contract which stipulates that all spurs and extensions of my road, once it enters Cardigan's lands, must be made at Cardigan's expense! And all to fool me into thinking he wanted those rails for an extension of his logging-system. Oh, what a blithering idiot I have been! However, it's not too late yet. Poundstone is coming over to dinner Thursday night, and I'll wring the swine dry before he leaves the house. And as for those rails Cardigan managed to hornswoggle me out of—”
He seized the telephone and fairly shouted to his exchange operator to get his woods-foreman Jules Rondeau on the line.
“That you, Rondeau?” he shouted when the big French Canadian responded. “Pennington talking. What has young Cardigan done about those rails I sold him from the abandoned spur up Laurel Creek?”
“He have two flat-cars upon ze spur now. Dose woods-gang of hees she tear up dose rails from ze head of ze spur and load in ze flat-cars.”
“The ears haven't left the Laurel Creek spur, then?”
“No, she don't leave yet.”
“See to it, Rondeau, that they do not leave until I give the word. Understand? Cardigan's woods-boss will call you up and ask you to send a switch-engine tip to snake them out late this afternoon or to-morrow afternoon. Tell him the switch-engine is in the shop for repairs or is busy at other work—anything that will stall him off and delay delivery.”
“Suppose Bryce Cardigan, he comes around and say 'Why?'” Rondeau queried cautiously.
“Kill him,” the Colonel retorted coolly. “It strikes me you and the Black Minorca are rather slow playing even with young Cardigan.”
Rondeau grunted. “I theenk mebbe so you kill heem yourself, boss,” he replied enigmatically, and hung up.