Again Carhart turned to Durfee. And Durfee said, “What is it?”
“It’s this.” Carhart drew from a pocket his sketch-map of the region about the trestle. “Here is Flagg—along this ridge, at the foot of these two knolls. His line lies, you see, across our right of way. Of course, everybody knows that he was sent there for a huge bluff, everybody thinks that I wouldn’t dare make real war of it. Flagg opened up the ball by shooting Flint, my engineer in charge at the La Paz. The shooting was done at night, when Flint was out in the valley looking things over, unarmed and alone.”
“What Flint is that?” asked Carrington, sharply.
“John B.”
“Hurt him much?”
“There is a chance that he will live.”
Carrington pursed his lips.
“We foresaw Bourke’s move,” Carhart pursued, “some time ago. And as it was plain that the mills in Pennsylvania—” he smiled a little here, straight into Durfee’s eyes—“and the Queen and Cumberland Railroad were planning to find it impossible to deliver our materials, we took up the rails and ties of the Paradise Southern and brought them out to the end of the track. In fact, we have our materials and supplies so well in hand that even if Bourke could hold Barker Hills, we are in a position to work right ahead. Track-laying is going on this minute. But we can’t cross the La Paz if Flagg doesn’t move.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Durfee.