WHEN THE LAST CARTRIDGE WAS GONE
WHATEVER was to be done would have to be done in a very few seconds.
For one of the rifle-armed strangers had started briskly for the tent
that concealed the boyish sergeant.
"Whatever happens, he isn't going to get me alive, if I can help it!"
quivered young Overton. "I'd sooner be killed at once than disgrace my
chevrons."
Two swift steps backward, and Sergeant Hal caught up his revolver.
With this in his right hand, and stepping panther-like, he returned to
the fallen tent flap.
The approaching man with the rifle bent forward, sweeping the tent flap
aside.
"Come out, Sarge!" he ordered.
"If I have to," retorted Hal, setting his teeth.
Grasping the revolver by the barrel end, he sprang through, before the
other fellow could comprehend what was happening.
"Look out, there!" yelled one of the invaders, coming up behind the man
with the rifle.
It was too late.
Crack! It was a fearful blow, the butt of the heavy Army revolver
landing on the fellow's jaw and fracturing it.
"O-o-o-h!"
It was a wail of fearful agony, but under the circumstances Sergeant
Overton could not afford to regret it.
The stricken man staggered back.
Hal poised for a bound, intending to snatch the rifle from him.
As the fellow dropped back, however, his companion coming up behind him
was in time to snatch the rifle, turning the muzzle on Overton.
There being not a second to lose, and the fight unequal, Hal darted,
instead, back to his tent pole.
There hung a mirror that he had used in shaving.
It took but an instant to get this. Then Hal raced for a tree thirty
feet away.
Dropping the small mirror into a pocket, Overton started to climb the
tree.
"Come down out of that tree, or we'll bring you down!" roared an ugly
voice.
"You'll have to drop me, then, if you want me," taunted Hal coolly.
He was a dozen feet up the trunk by the time that the man who now held
that rifle gained the base of the tree.
"Coming down, you----?" called the ruffian with an oath.
"No," responded Hal. "Coming up?"
"Come down, I tell you!"
"Some mistake," sneered Hal, still climbing. "I'm headed for the roof."
Below him he heard a threatening click as the bolt of the rifle was
thrown back.
"Hey! Don't shoot the kid--yet," ordered another voice. "He'll come down
when he sees what we can do to him. He hasn't any show."
So the fellow under the tree went back to join his six companions.
Dietz and Johnson were still holding up their hands. This fact was no
reflection on their courage. They were trained fighting men, and had
sense enough to realize when the enemy had "the drop" on them.
"You two soldiers," ordered the leader of the ruffians, "lie down on
your faces and hold your hands behind your backs for tying."
Neither soldier, however, stirred as yet.
"You heard that, Sergeant?" called Dietz dryly.
"Yes," admitted Hal.
"What shall we do?"
"You fellows get down on your faces--flop!" broke in the leader of the
ruffians. "That's what you'll do!"
"Will you be kind enough to shut up?" retorted Private Dietz coolly.
"We're taking our orders from the sergeant."
"Let him come down here and give the orders, then," jeered the leader of
the invaders.
"You'd better give in, Dietz and Johnson," order Sergeant Hal. "You
can't do anything and I don't want to see you killed."
"That's your order, then, is it, sergeant?" inquired Private Johnson.
"Yes; it can't be helped."
Dietz and Johnson, therefore, lay down as directed. Some of the
scoundrels who were not armed busied themselves with tying the soldiers,
and this work the miscreants did with a thoroughness that spoke
eloquently of practice.
But the diversion gave Hal a chance to do something that had popped into
his head at the instant when he had stepped back for the mirror.
The sun was still sufficiently high for him to catch the rays strongly
on his small mirror.
Now, in the Army signaling work, one branch has to do with
heliographing; that is, flashing a message by means of reflected rays of
the sun's light.
Swiftly enough the young sergeant caught the flash, and found to his
delight that he was able to throw a fairly long flash.
"Camp in hands of ruffians. Help quick!"
[Illustration: The Mirror Was Shot From Hal's Hand.]
Despite his tremendous excitement, Sergeant Overton endeavored to steady
his right hand enough to enable him to send the message quite clearly.
Again and again he flashed the message, until one of the invaders,
glancing up at the tree top, caught sight of the work that was going on.
"That kid's trying to send word to some one," guessed the leader. "Here,
cub, hand me that rifle."
Crack!
Smash!
It was a true shot, though how much of it was due to luck Sergeant Hal
could not surmise.
But the glass was shot from his hand, the splintered bits falling to the
ground.
"Next shot for you, kid!" warned the marksman below.
"Yes?" mocked Overton.
"Surest thing in the world? Coming down, or shall I bring you down?"
Crack!
Hal drew his own weapon up, firing as the sight passed the human target.
It was a close shot, the revolver bullet carrying away the fellow's
cloth cap.
"I'm firing too high," spoke Hal as composedly as though he did not feel
any excitement. "I'll fire for your belt line after this."
That was too much for the ruffian's composure. He turned, running in a
zig-zag line.
So Hal held his fire, awaiting results for a moment. As he waited he
felt for his revolver ammunition.
Then he made a sickening discovery. He had no revolver ammunition beyond
the five cartridges remaining in the cylinder of his weapon.
As for the invaders, they had more than three hundred rounds of rifle
ammunition now at their disposal.
And they had fled to cover, too, but now Sergeant Overton had the
uncomfortable conviction that three rifles were trained on him.
"Now, come down out of that tree on the double quick!" commanded the
leader of the invaders.
"My coming will suit myself only," boasted Hal in a tone conveying ten
times the confidence that he felt.
"That shot of yours may start help this way," continued the leader
threateningly. "We ain't going to take any chances. Start on the second,
or we'll begin shooting, and keep it up until we tumble you out of that
tree."
"You may fire whenever ready," mocked Hal. "Every shot you fire will be
a signal that will make my friends come faster."
Bang! It was the leader himself who fired. The bullet clipped off a
leaf within an inch of Sergeant Overton's ear.
Crack! The boyish young sergeant was all there with the grit. He fired
straight back at the leader, the bullet striking the rock before the
other's face.
Now two more shots clipped close to the young soldier. Hal answered with
one.
But he tried to steady himself. He realized that he had but three
fighting shots left, and that he must make them count.
"But maybe three are enough to last me as long as I'm going to live,
anyway," reflected Sergeant Overton grimly.
There was not much comfort in that thought, but Hal drew himself around
more behind the tree trunk in order to shield himself as much as
possible, although the tree trunk would be no real protection from
bullets.
The Army bullet, at an ordinary range, will pierce three solid feet of
standing oak.