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Beyond the ground rose sharply, and looking at the crest against the sky, he could see the rebels, one by one, file over, and come down to where they could crouch behind the logs and ambuscade the bridge. Si clicked his gunlock, and waited till he had counted 25 rebels gathered there, which seemed to be all, as no more appeared.
"Halt! Go back," commanded a hoarse voice in front of her, which was accompanied with the clicking of a gunlock. "Ye can't pass heah." "Lemme pass, Mister," she pleaded. "I'm on'y a gal, with medicine fur my mammy, an' I'm powerful anxious ter git home." "No, ye can't git out heah. Orders are strict; besides, ef ye did the Yankees 'd cotch ye. They're jest out thar."
Close at hand is another wooden knob, marked "Lock," fastened to the end of a line fixed to the trigger of a gunlock primed with powder: and so arranged, that, when the line is pulled, the port-fire is instantly ignited, while, at the same moment, the life-buoy descends, and floats merrily away, blazing like a lighthouse.
He leaped instantly to the shelter of a great trunk and his hand sprang to his gunlock, but no other sound followed, and he wondered. At first, he had thought it indicated the presence of warriors, but Indians did not cut down trees and doubtless it was due to some other cause, perhaps an old, decayed trunk that had been weighted down by snow, falling through sheer weariness.
You let him stay back, while you go down the line yourself." "Certainly," replied Capt. McGillicuddy. "Serg't Klegg, stay where you are." Si saluted and took his position, facing the line, with a look of calm impartiality upon his face. Shorty turned around and backed up to him so that the calves of their legs touched, and began intently studying his gunlock. Capt.
He was compelled to see the fiery core of the raincloud lighting it for a revealment, that allowed as little as it retained of a shadow of obscurity. The sight was keener than touch and the run of blood with blood to quicken slumbering seeds of passion. But here is the place of broken ground and tangle, which calls to honourable men, not bent on sport, to be wary to guard the gunlock.
It was that of rather an aged man, who walked with soft, cat-like tread, and who leaned forward, as if on the trail of some enemy or wild beast. His eyes were bright, however, in spite of his age. "Andy Sudds!" exclaimed Jack. "I was wondering where you were." "Well, snap my gunlock, if it isn't Jack Darrow!" exclaimed Andy. "Any luck?" asked Mark, for he knew the old man must have been hunting.
I bought a can and brung 'em up to the tent. Jest try 'em." He stuck the spoon out towards Shorty's mouth. The latter, with his gunlock in one hand and a greasy rag in the other, looked at the tempting morsel, opened his mouth, and the deed was done. "Must've left a stone in that peach," he said, as he gulped it down. "Mebbe so," said Si, with a guilty flush, and pretending to examine the others.
"If we get through this scrape, my dear fellow," said he, "I will return you twice as many." But they never met again, and Fowler could only suppose that his cautious friend was soon tomahawked and scalped with the other wounded. Fowler took to a tree, and shot Indians till his gunlock got out of order.
He was compelled to see the fiery core of the raincloud lighting it for a revealment, that allowed as little as it retained of a shadow of obscurity. The sight was keener than touch and the run of blood with blood to quicken slumbering seeds of passion. But here is the place of broken ground and tangle, which calls to honourable men, not bent on sport, to be wary to guard the gunlock.
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