But Jimmie only shook his head, while he worked his key.
“Come down or we shoot you down,” blared Flat-nose; and he drew a deadly bead.
But Thomas had broken in at last.
“O. K. Where?” ticked Camp Thomas.
“Ash Flats. Head east. Bronc’s and squaws.”
“O. K. Get off wire,” answered Camp Thomas.
“Bang!” sounded Chato’s rifle, and Jimmie’s little instrument flew into fragments. But Jimmie cared not, now. He went sliding painfully down; landed right in the midst of the four Indians, staggered—two of them were afoot, waiting for him—they sprang at him, and wrenched his revolver from its holster. They acted as though they were going to kill him, or take him along, when Nah-che interfered.
“No!” he ordered, while Chato scowled. But Nah-che was obeyed, because he was a grown warrior and son of Cochise. “What were you doing, chi-kis-n?” he demanded.
“I talked with Camp Thomas,” answered Jimmie, defiantly.
“What did you say?”