CHAPTER VIII.
THE ATTACK.
The powder-house backed up against the rear wall of the laboratory. It was small, constructed of stone, and was considerably dilapidated through disuse. In earlier days it had answered very well as a storing-place for high-explosives, but that was when the Three-ply Mine was young, and had not expanded to its present dimensions. Now, owing to the mine’s growth, the old powder-house was altogether too close to the scene of operations for safety, and another storeroom had been built farther up the hillside.
Very quietly Buffalo Bill, Nomad, and the baron took up their quarters in the ruinous structure, swung the battered old door into place, and seated themselves on the pounded-clay floor.
The scout and the baron had each a six-shooter, which had been given to them by McGowan, together with a supply of cartridges.
By the time they were safely ensconced in their hiding-place, the sun was on the rise and the camp was astir.
Peering through the chinks in the stone wall, the baron could look at the chuck-shanty, and could see Frieda bobbing out and in while making ready the miners’ breakfast.
“Ach, sooch a fine girl vat id iss!” he wheezed, with both hands on his heart.
“Fergit et!” growled Nomad. “Ye’ve got somethin’ else ter think erbout now, baron.”
“I can’t t’ink oof nodding but Frieda!”