ping the browner
carbine, their keen eyes peering straight into the faces of the
thronging crowd, their bronze features set and stern, the whole car
fairly bristles with men who have fought tribe after tribe of savage
foes from the Yellowstone to the Sonora line, and who hold a savage
mob in utter contempt. Here by the hub of the Gatling's wheel stands
old Feeny, close at the elbow of dark-faced Drummond. "C" troop's
first platoon "mans" the Gatling gun, and under its old leader of the
Arizona campaigns "leads the procession" into the "Garden City" of the
ante-bellum days. By Drummond's side is a railway official gazing
ahead to see that every switch is properly set and signalling back to
the engineer when to "slow," when to come confidently ahead. Behind
the platform car come ordinary baggage and passenger coaches, black
with men in the same rough, devil-may-care scouting rig. All but their
horses and horse equipments left with the quartermaster at the Sidney
station, the battalion has been run to Chicago exactly as it came from
the plains, and Chicago's "toughs," who would have hooted and jeered,
perhaps, at sight of polished brasses and natty uniforms, recoil
bewildered before this gang of silent and disciplined "jay-hawkers."
Steadily, silently, ominously, the train rolls along. As it is
rounding a curve several ugly-looking fellows are seen running at
speed towards the switch-lever at the next street-crossing. Excitedly
the railway man clutches Drummond's elbow and points. Two troopers are
kneeling close at hand.

"Shoot if they touch that switch," says Drummond, and instantly the
locks click as the hammers are brought to full cock. The foremost
runner is almost at the iron stand; his hand is outstretched to grasp
it when a gasping, warning cry reaches his ears; glancing back he sees
his fellows scattering to either side, and one look at the smooth
rolling car reveals the cause: two carbines are levelled at him, and
flat he throws himself on his face and rolls to one side amid derisive
laughter from the strikers themselves. A little farther on a knot of
surly rioters are gathered on the track. No warning whistle sounds and
the clanging bell is too far to the rear to attract their attention.
"Out of the way there!" is the blunt, roughly-spoken order. No time
this for standing on ceremony. Vengeful and scowling the men spring
aside, some stooping to pick up rocks, others reaching into their
pockets for the ready pis