“A minute or two after the breakfast bells rings,” the boy told the Indian, “I’m goin’ to crawl up to the house. You stay here. You keep me in range. Some man may stop me. If I raise my hand—like this—you shoot. Right?”
“Bueno,” Charlie answered. “Like that”—he imitated Johnny’s signal—“and I shoot.”
In a few minutes the Chinese cook rang his gong and the men began trooping from the bunkhouse for their morning meal. Johnny waited no longer. On his hands and knees he began crawling through the sagebrush.
Fifteen minutes later he had reached the front porch, the floor of which was a good foot above the ground. Noiselessly he crept beneath it. From this shelter he stuck out a long willow gad and began tapping on the window of Molly’s room.
The girl had been awake most of the night, and it did not take long for this repeated tapping to draw her attention.
“Johnny!” she gasped as she caught sight of the boy’s face protruding from the space below the porch.
“Get dressed quickly!” he ordered. “Don’t take over ten minutes.”
And, turtle-like, Johnny drew in his head and left Molly to jump into her clothes. She whistled to him softly when she was ready.
“Come through the window,” he bade her. A second later she stood on the porch beside him.
“Charlie’s in the willows with horses,” he said tersely. “You streak it now. I’ll stop them if they catch sight of you.”