ish to
imperil the poor China boy's scalp with his own.

He turned an anxious eye toward the sand-hills. Then realizing that on
the platform he was exposing himself needlessly, he hastened inside to
his key and called up Medicine Bend. It was only a moment, but it
seemed to the frightened operator a lifetime before the despatcher
answered. Bucks reported the Indians and asked if there were any
freight trains coming that he could make his escape on.

The despatcher answered that No. 11, the local freight, was then due
at Goose Creek and would pick him up and carry him to Julesburg if he
felt in danger. Bucks turned with relief to the east window and saw
down the valley the smoke of the freight already in sight. Never had a
freight train looked so good to his eyes as it did at that moment. He
hailed its appearance with a shout and looked apprehensively back
toward the sand-hills.

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 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