“No; he has gone back to Mr. Thurston and Mr. Blaisdell,” Hazelton answered. “Doc says he’ll have to be with them to quiet them in case the firing gets close. He says both men will become excited and try to jump out of bed and come over here. Doc says he’s going to strap ’em both down.” “Dr. Gitney may be badly needed here, if a fight opens,” Tom mused aloud. “He says, if we need him, to send for him.” “Come through a hot fire?” Tom gasped. “Surely! Doc Gitney is a Colorado man, born and bred. He doesn’t mind a lead shower when it comes in the line of duty,” laughed Harry. “Now, if you’re through using me as a messenger, I’m going to find a rifle.” “You won’t succeed,” Tom retorted. “Every rifle in camp already has an amateur soldier behind it.” “Just my luck!” growled Harry. “You’re a good, husky lad,” Tom continued. “If you want to be of real use, just lie down hug the earth, take good care not to be hit, and-----” “Fine and manly!” interjected Hazelton with contempt. “Now, don’t try to be a hero,” urged Tom teasingly. “There are altogether too many green, utterly inexperienced heroes here at present. Be useful, Harry, old chum, and let those who are good for nothing else be 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.