The activity in that direction was not reassuring. The Indians, too, apparently had noticed the smoke of No. 11 trailing on the horizon. A conference followed, illustrated by frequent pointing and violent gesticulating to indicate the coming 139 train. Then with a sudden resolve the whole party rode rapidly out of the hills and down toward the railroad.
Bucks’s heart misgave him as he watched. But the cotton-woods growing along the river hid the Indians from his eyes and he could not surmise what they were doing. The information all went to the despatcher, however, who, more experienced, scented serious mischief when Bucks’s bulletins now came in.
“Watch close,” he wired. “It looks as if they were going to attack the train.”
The operator’s anxiety rose with the intimation. He ran out of doors and down the track, but he could neither hear nor see a thing except the slow-moving train with the smoke puffing from the awkward, diamond-stack locomotive moving peacefully toward the cotton-woods that fringed the eastern shore of Goose Creek. The very silence seemed ominous. Bucks knew the Indians were hidden somewhere in the cotton-woods and felt that they could mean nothing but mischief. He ran back to his key and reported.
“They will surely attack No. 11,” he wired. “I will run across the bridge and warn them.”
“Where are the Indians?” demanded the despatcher.
“In the timber across the creek. I am starting.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” returned the despatcher, with an expression of Western force and brevity. “They will lift your hair before you get half-way to the train. Stick to your key as long as you can. If they start to cross the creek, leg it for the ranch. Do you get me?”
Bucks, considerably flurried, answered that he did, and the despatcher with renewed emphasis reiterated his sharp inquiry. “Do you understand, young fellow? If they start to cross the creek, leg it for the ranch or you’ll lose your hair.”