“If they come at all, it will be just before dawn,” Jim Nestor had said. “But they may not come. I haven’t seen a sign of ’em, and I’ve been watching carefully. That searchlight is a great stunt. It makes the woods as bright as day; though, as I said, I wish we had a wider circle of clearing around us. Keep your eyes peeled, Bob.”
The stout lad promised, and took his position. At first he followed the circle of the light zealously, as it moved about, being operated by a small motor that sent it revolving on a cogged base. Then, as he saw nothing but the leafy shadow of the trees, he became less nervous, and took his task more comfortably.
Bob was a hearty eater, and, just before coming on watch he had partaken of a lunch, though it was night. And, as is well known, a hearty meal often makes one sleepy. It was so in Bob’s case.
At first he felt only drowsy. Then he felt his head nodding from time to time. Once he even dozed for a moment.
“Come! This won’t do!” he exclaimed. “I believe I’m getting sleepy. Guess I’ll get a drink of water.”
As he arose to leave the pilot house, he gave a look once more all around the little clearing, lighted by the flashing light. He could see nothing.
But scarcely had Bob reached the water cooler, and raised the glass to his lips, then, from the surrounding forest, arose a chorus of shrill yells—cries that sent a cold shiver down his spine, and seemed to stop the beating of his heart.
“Indians!” he yelled. “The Blackfeet! They’re attacking us! Wake up, everybody!”