Never had he felt so high in the air, and so much exposed. Almost any other pole would have been better, but none had been as near and convenient. He made a splendid mark, like a hawk roosting in a dead tree.
“Ping!” A bullet! They were shooting at him! “Pung!” That was the report, following. “Whing!” “Pung!” But he must not mind the warning. He needed only a minute more. As he worked rapidly his fingers seemed all thumbs. He did not dare to take his eyes off them. “Thud-bang!” The bullet shook the pole, and the report was so close that the shooter could not be far away. He heard shrill yells, somewhere below——
“Whack-bang!” A heavy hammer fell on the top of his shoulder, and well nigh knocked him from his perch. He clung desperately, wrapping himself tighter—his shoulder stung and was oddly warm—but it was his left shoulder, he was on the wire at last, and was sending with his right hand.
“D,” “D,” “D,” he called Camp Thomas.
There was thud of hoofs below, a chorus of angry yells—“Whish-bang!” a bullet fanned his cheek—“Ping-bang!” another cut a large sliver from the pole close to his neck—“D,” “D,” “D,” he kept calling, even while he glanced aside.
The four Indians were into the road and tearing for him, rifles leveled upward—he saw smoke, heard the bullets—but the Thomas operator had answered.
“I—I D,” “I—I D.”
Now for the ten seconds’ grace!
“Injuns out. Big band——”
Camp Thomas broke.