Carhart mused a moment, then pulled out from a heap of papers one on which he had sketched a map. “Here we are,” said he. “The trestle is fifty to a hundred and fifty feet high, from ridge to ridge. Flagg has strung out his men along the west ridge, about a mile from here, and across the end of the trestle.”
“Yes, yes,” broke in Tiffany, “I see. I’ve been all over this ground.”
“Well, now, you see these two knolls on the west ridge, a little back of Flagg’s position? The one to the north is a hundred and twenty feet higher than Flagg’s men; the one to the south is eighty feet higher and only a quarter of a mile away from him. His line of retreat lies through the hollow between the two knolls, where the track is to run. Now if I put fifty or a hundred men on each knoll, I can command his position, and even shut off his retreat. His choice then would lie between moving north or south along the crest of the ridge, which is also commanded by the two knolls, or coming down the slope toward us.”
“Flagg hasn’t occupied the knolls, eh?”
“I believe he hasn’t. I’ve been watching them with the glasses.”
“I wonder why the Commodore put such a man in charge.”
“Oh, Flagg has some reputation as a bad man. He’s the sort General Carrington employed in the Colorado fights.”
They talked on for a time, then Carhart put up his map and they walked out. It was evening. Across the valley, at the point where the trestle met the rising ground, they could see lights, some of them moving about. Tiffany walked with his hands deep in his trousers pockets. Finally he said thoughtfully:—
“The more I think of it, Paul, the more I’m impressed by what Commodore Durfee has done. He has got possession of our grade over there—we can’t deny that. We’ve either got to give up, or else take the offensive and fight. And that would look rotten, now, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” Carhart replied, “it would. He has made a pretty play. And as a play—as a bluff—it comes pretty near being effective.”