WHEN THE CAMP GREW WARM
President Newnham had prudently decided to lie down flat on the ground.
Nor was it any reflection on his courage that he did so. He was
taking no part in the fight, and the leaden tornado that swept
the camp from some unknown point was almost instantly repeated.
At the same time the marksmen on and at the right of the bald
knob continued to fire. The camp defenders were in a criss-cross
of fire that might have shaken the nerves of an old and tried
soldier.
Tom watched the ground as bullets struck, trying to decide their
original course from the directions in which the dust flew. Then
he swung around to the right.
With modern smokeless powder there was no light, bluish haze to
mark the firing line of the new assailants. Tom Reade had to
search and explore with his binocular glass until he could make
out moving heads, waving arms.
“I’ve found ’em, Fulsbee!” young Reade cried suddenly, above the
noise of rifles within a few yards of where they stood, as the
engineers made the most of their chances to fire. “Turn the same
way that I’m looking. See that blasted pine over there to your
right, about six hundred there to the gully southeast of the tree.
Got the line? Well, along there there’s a line of men hidden.
Through the glass I can sometimes make out the flash of their rifles.
Take the glass yourself, and see.”
Dave Fulsbee snatched the binoculars, making a rapid survey.
“Reade,” he admitted, “you have surely located that crowd.”
“Now, go after them with your patent hay rake,” quivered Tom,
feeling the full excitement of the thing in this tantalizing cross
fire. Then the cub added, with a sheepish grin:
“I hope you’ll scare ’em, instead of hitting ’em, Dave.”
Fulsbee stepped over to his assistant. Between them they swung
the machine gun around, the assistant wrenching off the canvas
cover. Fulsbee rapidly sighted the piece for six hundred yards.
The assistant stood by to feed belts of cartridges, while Dave took
his post at the firing mechanism.
Cr-r-r-r-rack! sounded the machine gun, spitting forth a pelting
storm of lead. As the piece continued to disgorge bullets at
the rate of six hundred a minute, Dave, a grim smile on his lips,
swung the muzzle of the piece so as to spread the fire along the
entire line of the main ambush.
“Take the glass,” Tom roared in Harry’s ear, above the din. “See
how Fulsbee is throwing up dust and bits of rock all along that
rattled line.”
Hazelton watched, his face showing an appreciative grin.
“It has the scoundrels scared and going!” Hazelton yelled back.
Fully fifteen hundred cartridges did the machine gun deliver up
and down that line.
Then, suddenly, Dave Fulsbee swung the gun around, delivering
a hailstorm of bullets against the bald knob rock and the bushes
to the right of it.
“There’s the answer!” gleefully uttered Hazelton, who had just
handed the glass back to his chum.
The “answer” was a fluttering bit of white cloth tied to a rifle
and hoisted over the bushes at the right of the bald knob.
“Who do you suppose is holding the white cloth?” chuckled Tom.
“I can’t guess,” Harry confessed.
“Our old and dangerous friend Peter,” Tom laughed.
“Bad Pete!”
“No; Scared Pete.”
There was a sudden twinkle in Hazelton’s eyes as he espied Dave
Fulsbee’s rifle lying on the ground beside the machine gun.
In another instant Harry had that rifle and was back at Tom’s
side.
Harry threw open the magazine, making sure that there were cartridges
in the weapon. Then he dropped to one knee, taking careful sight
in the direction of the white flag.
“You idiot---what are you doing?” blazed Tom.
The fire from the camp had died out. That from the assailants
beyond had ceased at least thirty seconds earlier.
One sharp report broke the hush that followed.
“Who’s doing that work? Stop it!” ordered Fulsbee, turning
wrathfully.
“I’m through,” grinned Harry meekly.
“What do you mean by shooting at a flag of truce?” demanded the
deputy sheriff angrily.
“I didn’t,” Harry argued, laying the rifle down on the ground.
“I sent one in with my compliments, to see whether the fellow
with the white rag would get the trembles. I guess he did, for
the white rag has gone out of sight.”
“They may start the firing again,” uttered Dave Fulsbee. “They’ll
feel that you don’t respect their flag of truce.”
“I didn’t feel a heap of respect for the fellow that held up the
white flag,” Hazelton admitted, with another grin. “It was Bad
Pete, and I wanted to see what his nerve was like when someone
else was doing the shooting and he was the target.”
“Peter simply flopped and dropped his gun, Tom declared.
“Say,” muttered Harry, his face showing real concern, “I hope
I didn’t hit him.”
“Did you aim at him?” demanded Tom.
“I did not.”
“Then there _is_ some chance that Peter was hit,” Tom confessed.
“Harry, when you’re shooting at a friend, and in a purely hospitable
way, always aim straight for him. Then the poor fellow will have
a good chance to get off with a whole skin!”
“Cut out that line of talk,” ordered Hazelton, his face growing
red. “Back in the old home days, Tom, you’ve seen me do some
great shooting.”
“With the putty-blower---yes,” Tom admitted, with a chuckle.
“Say, wasn’t Old Dut Jones, of the Central Grammar, rough on boys
who used putty-blowers in the schoolroom?”
“If Pete was hit, it wasn’t my shot that did it,” muttered Harry,
growing redder still. “I aimed for the centre of that white rag.
If we ever come across the rag we’ll find my bullet hole through
it. That was what I hit.”
Deputy Dave’s assistant was now cleaning out the soot-choked barrels
of the machine gun, that the piece might be fit for use again as soon
as the barrels had cooled.
“I reckon,” declared Dave, “that our friends have done their worst.
It’s my private wager that they’re now doing a foot race for the
back trails.”
“Is any one of our fellows hit?” called Tom, striding over to
the late firing line. “Anyone hit? If so, we must take care
of him at once.”
Tom went the length of the line, only to discover that none of
the camp’s defenders had been injured, despite the shower of bullets
that had been poured in during the brief but brisk engagement.
Three of the engineers displayed clothing that had been pierced
by bullets.
“Dave,” called Tom, “how soon will it be safe to send over to
the late strongholds and find out whether any of Naughty Peter’s
friends have any hurts that demand Doc Gitney’s attention?”
“Huh! If any of the varmints are hit, I reckon they can wait,”
muttered Fulsbee.
“Not near this camp!” retorted Reade with spirit. “If any human
being around here has been hurt he must have prompt care. How
soon will it be safe to start?”
“I don’t know how soon it will be safe,” Dave retorted. “I want
to take about a half dozen of the young fellows, on horseback,
and ride over just to see if we can draw any fire. That will
show whether the rascals have quit their ambushes.”
“If they haven’t,” mocked Tom, “they’ll also show your little
party some new gasps in the way of excitement.”
Nevertheless Reade did not object when Fulsbee called for volunteers.
If any new firing was to be encountered it was better to risk
a small force rather than a large one.
Harry Hazelton was one of the six volunteers who rode out with
Deputy Dave. Though they searched the country for miles they
did not encounter any of the late raiders. Neither did they find
any dead or wounded men.
The abandoned transits and other instruments and implements were
found and brought back to camp.
While this party was absent Tom took Mr. Newnham back to headquarters
tent, where he explained, in detail, all that had been accomplished
and all that was now being done.
Late in the afternoon Dave Fulsbee and his little force returned. Tom
listened attentively to the report made by the sheriff’s officer.
“They’ve cheated you out of one day’s work, anyway,” muttered the
man from Broadway, rather fretfully.
“We can afford to lose the time,” Tom answered almost carelessly.
“Our field work is well ahead. It’s the construction work that
is bothering me most. I hope soon to have news as to whether the
construction outfit has been attacked.”
“The wires are all up again, sir,” reported the operator, pausing
at the doorway of the tent. “The men you sent back have mended
all the breaks. I’ve just heard from the construction camp that
none of the unknown scoundrels have been heard from there.”
“They found you so well prepared here,” suggested President Newnham,
“that the rascals have an idea that the construction camp is also well
guarded. I imagine we’ve heard the last of the opposition.”
“Then you’re going to be fooled, sir,” Tom answered, very decisively.
“For my part, I believe that the tactics of the gloom department of the
W.C. & A. have just been commenced. Fighting men of a sort are to be
had cheap in these mountains, and the W.C. & A. railroad is playing a
game that it’s worth millions to win. They’re resolved that we shan’t
win. And I, Mr. Newnham, am determined that we shall win!”