They were groveling there in a tangle of legs and arms when “Happy Tom” came down the grade, leading a charge which swept the embankment clean.

The boss packer had equipped his command with pick-handles and now set a brilliant example in the use of this, his favorite weapon.  For once the apathetic Slater was fully roused; he was tremendous, irresistible.  In his capable grasp the oaken cudgel became both armor and flail; in defense it was as active as a fencing-master’s foil, in offense as deadly as the kick of a mule.  Beneath his formless bulk were the muscles of a gladiator; his eye had all the quickness of a prize-fighter.  There was something primeval, appallingly ferocious about the fat man, too:  he fought with a magnificent enthusiasm, a splendid abandon.  And yet, in spite of his rage, he was clear-headed, and his ears were sensitively strained for the sound of the first gunshot-something he dreaded beyond measure.

He was sobbing as much from anxiety as from the violence of his exertions when he tore Appleton from the clutch of the black man and set him on his feet.

“Are you hurt, son?” he gasped.

“Sure!  I’m—­hurt like hell.”  Dan spat out a mouthful of blood and sand.  “Gimme a club.”

“Go back yonder,” Tom directed, swiftly.  “Nail Denny before he gets ’em to shooting.  Kill him if you have to.  I’ll take care of these fellers.”

The younger man saw that the engagement at this end of the line was no longer general, but had become a series of individual combats, so he made what haste he could toward the scene of the more serious encounter to the right of the crossing.  He judged that the issue was still in doubt there, although he could make out little in the confusion on account of the glaring headlight, which dazzled him.

As he ran, however, he discovered that the S. R. & N. forces were in possession of the middle ground, having divided the enemy’s ranks like a wedge, and this encouraged him.  Out of the darkness to right and left came shouts, curses, the sounds of men wallowing about in the knee-deep tundra.  They were Gordon’s helpers who had been routed from their positions.

Now that Appleton had time to collect himself he, too, grew sick with suspense, for he knew that arms had been stacked inside the barricades.  Any instant might bring them into play.  He began to wonder why Denny withheld the word to fire.

As a matter of fact, the explanation was simple, although it did not appear until later.  Mr. Denny at that moment was in no condition to issue orders of any kind, the reason being as follows:  when preparations for the advance were made, Dr. Gray, who understood perhaps more fully than any one else except O’Neil the gravity of the issue and the slender pivot upon which the outcome balanced, had taken his place in the vanguard of the attacking party instead of in the background, as befitted his calling.  The first rush had carried him well into the fray, but once there he had shown his good judgment by refusing to participate in it.