While Frank and Harry planted the blue flares on rocks on the hillside within easy range of the camp, and old Mr. Joyce utilized his electrical skill in wiring them up and connecting them to a common switch, Billy and Lathrop and Bart Witherbee struck camp and packed the paraphernalia in the tonneau of the auto.
“Better be ready ter make a quick gitaway,” was the miner’s recommendation.
These tasks completed, there was nothing to do but to wait for a sign of the attack. This was nervous work. Bart had informed the boys that in his opinion the Indians were a band from a reservation not many miles from there who had somehow got hold of a lot of “firewater” and had “got bad.”
“I’ll bet yer there’s troops after ’em now, if we did but know it,” he opined.
“Well, I wish the troops would get here quick,” bemoaned Harry.
“They won’t git here in time ter be of much use ter us,” remarked old Bart, grimly biting off a big chew of tobacco, “and now, boys, keep quiet, and mind, don’t fire till I tell yer, and don’t switch on them lights till I give you the word.”
How long they waited neither Frank nor Harry nor any of the others could ever tell, but it seemed to be years before there came a sudden owl hoot far up on the hillside.
“Here they come, that’s their signal,” whispered old Bart in Frank’s ear; “steady now.”
“I’m all right,” replied Frank, as calmly as he could, though his heart beat wildly.
The hoot was answered by another one, and then all was silence.