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It was not long before he came upon the same trail again and he started another circle. A bullet zipped past his ear and cut a twig not two inches from his head. He fired at the smoke as he dropped, and then wriggled rapidly backward, keeping as flat to the earth as he could.
Then, lying flat on his back, he whipped out his revolver. I saw the red spurt, the puff of smoke. Bang! A bullet zipped through the brush, and tore a hole through the roof. Bang! Bang! I felt a hot, tearing pain in my arm. "Stop, you black idiot!" yelled Buell. He kicked the revolver out of Bud's hand. "What d'you mean by thet?"
Hardly had he spoken when bang came a shot from beyond the fire; a bullet zipped past his head and flattened on the rock well back in the cave. Where could that have come from? was the question. A little whiff of blue smoke sailing away on the wind from the fork of a tall oak not fifty feet in front told the story.
The foliage in the larger trees was too thick. He longed to clamber to his watch-tower but felt well assured that one step outside the parapet would make him a target for the Indian rifles. First as an experiment he put his hat on a stick and cautiously raised it above their barricade. Two bullets instantly "zipped" over his head and dropped flat as pancakes from the rock overhead.
With a leap Frank got through the gap in the wire and started running like a deer toward the American lines. There were startled shouts behind him, hoarse commands, a rushing of feet and a crackling volley of shots. The bullets whizzed and zipped close to him and he felt a sharp sting as one of them grazed the lower part of his left arm.
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