“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 President Newnham, and one leaden pellet carried off that gentleman’s soft hat. “Please lie down, Mr. Newnham,” begged Tom, turning around. Now that the fight had opened the cub chief saw less use for the binocular. “We can’t have you hit, sir. You’re the head of the company, please remember.” “I don’t like this place, but I’m only one human life here,” the man from Broadway replied quietly, gravely. “If other men so readily risk their lives for the property of my associates and myself, then I’m going to expose myself at least as much as these young men ahead of us do.” “Just one shot apiece,” sounded Dave Fulsbee’s steady voice. “Fire where you’ve been told.” It was an irregular volley that ripped out from the defenders of the camp. Half of the marksmen fired to the right of the rook, the others at its crest. Right on top of this came another volley, fired from some new point of attack. It filled the air at this end of the camp with bullets. “Livin’ rattlers!”, cried Dave Fulsbee, leaping to his feet. “That’s the real attack. Reade, locate that main body and turn us loose on ’em. If you don’t, the fellows in the real ambush will soon make a sieve of this camp. There must be a regiment of ’em!” CHAPTER XVIII WHEN THE CAMP GREW WARM President Newnham had prudently decided to lie down flat on the ground. Nor was it any reflection on his courage that he did so. He was taking no part in the fight, and the leaden tornado that swept the camp from some unknown point was almost instantly repeated. At the same time the marksmen on and at the right of the bald knob continued to fire. The camp defenders were in a criss-cross of fire that might have shaken the nerves of an old and tried soldier. Tom watched the ground as bullets struck, trying to decide their original course from the directions in which the dust flew. Then he swung around to the right. With modern smokeless powder there was no light, bluish haze to mark the firing line of the new assailants. Tom Reade had to search and explore with his binocular glass until he could make out moving heads, waving arms.