Meanwhile Fulsbee’s assistant, the man who had driven the wagon into camp, stood silent, motionless, behind the canvas-covered object in the bushes just behind the engineer’s fighting line.
“Now, if one of you galoots dares to fire before he gets the word,” sounded Dave Fulsbee’s warning voice in the ominous calm that followed, “I’ll snatch the offender out of the line and give him a good, sound spanking. The only man for me is the man who has the nerve to wait when he’s being shot at.”
Crack! Far up on the bald knob a single shot sounded, and a bullet struck the ground about six feet from where Tom Reade stood with the binocular at his eyes.
Then there came a volley from the right of the rock, followed by one from the rock itself.
“Easy, boys,” cautioned Fulsbee, as the bullets tore up the ground back of the firing line. “I’ll give you the word when the time comes.”
Another volley sounded. Bullets tore up the ground near President Newnham, and one leaden pellet carried off that gentleman’s soft hat.
“Please lie down, Mr. Newnham,” begged Tom, turning around. Now that the fight had opened the cub chief saw less use for the binocular. “We can’t have you hit, sir. You’re the head of the company, please remember.”
“I don’t like this place, but I’m only one human life here,” the man from Broadway replied quietly, gravely. “If other men so readily risk their lives for the property of my associates and myself, then I’m going to expose myself at least as much as these young men ahead of us do.”
“Just one shot apiece,” sounded Dave Fulsbee’s steady voice. “Fire where you’ve been told.”
It was an irregular volley that ripped out from the defenders of the camp. Half of the marksmen fired to the right of the rook, the others at its crest.