nine o'clock
Above for a mile , below for a league , the track had been torn up in places , and down along Silver Run , toward Hatch 's Cove and the foot-hills , culverts and cuts had been mined and blown out for five miles more . No sheriff 's posses from below , no hated Pinkertons , no despised militia , no dreaded regulars , should come to the aid of Silver Shield till there was nothing left worth saving . And up here on the northward flank of the bold , rounded heights that overhung the town , and harbored now both besieged and besiegers , invisible to each other and to the lower world in the darkness , Geordie Graham lay crouching behind a little bowlder , every sense on edge , for to his left front , a little higher up , he could distinctly hear low , gruff voices , confused murmurings and movements , sounds that told him that , relying on their overwhelming numbers , the mob was coming slowly , surely , down to carry out their threat to fire the buildings and to finish as they pleased the wretched defenders . It was barely nine o'clock . Below him , perhaps twenty yards downhill , was his nearest sentry . Above him , and a little retired , was another , a silent young German-American who had been at the head of the men working tunnel Number Two . Beyond him still , and thrown back toward the head of the ravine , was one of Cawker 's guard , a sharp-eyed , sharp-witted chap who had seemed at first to chafe at Graham 's hints and orders , yet had acted on them .