heroes."

"Following your own advice?" asked Hazelton. "Is that why you
haven't a rifle yourself?"

"Why do I need a rifle?" demanded Reade. "I'm a non-combatant."

"You-----"

"Box the chatter, Harry, and ship it east," Tom interposed, showing
signs of interest. Then, in a louder voice, Tom called:

"Dave Fulsbee!"

"Here," answered the deputy sheriff from his hiding place in the
brush.

"Do you see that bald knob of rock ahead, to your left; about
a quarter of a mile away?"

"I do."

"I make out figures crawling to the cover of the line of brush
just to the right of the bald knob," Tom continued. "There are
eight of them, I think."

"I see figures moving there," Dave answered. Then, in a low voice,
the deputy instructed the engineers on each side of him.

"I see half a dozen more figures---heads, rather---showing just
at the summit line of the rock itself," went on Reade.

"Yes; I make 'em," answered Fulsbee, after a long, keen look.

Again more instructions were given to the engineers.

"Say, I've _got_ to have a rifle," insisted Harry nervously.
"You know, I always have been 'cracked, on target shooting. This
is the best practical chance that I'll ever have."

"You'll have to wait your turn, Harry," Tom urged soothingly.

"My turn?"

"Yes; wait until one of our fellows is badly hit. Then you can
take up his rifle and move into his place on the line. When you're
hit, then I can have the rifle."

Hazelton made a face, though he said nothing.

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 Presid