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 pistol; but rocks are dropped and pistols undrawn as the train whirls rapidly by, and wrath gives place to mystification.  Who—­what are these strange, silent, stubbly-bearded, sun-tanned fellows in slouch hats, flannel shirts, and the worn old black belts over the shoulder?  Even the engine has its guard, and half a dozen of them, perched upon the tender, have levelled their carbines to flank and rear, ready to let drive into the crowd the instant a brick is heaved or a trigger pulled.

And so into the great stone station they roll, and here they find the platforms jammed with citizens,—­some drawn by curiosity, some active sympathizers in the strike, and many of them prominent leaders of the mob surging in the crowded thoroughfare without.  The train has hardly come to a stand when from every direction the mass of outsiders is heaving up around it.