When Bill returned with a number of sharp, bayonet-like pikes I knew the
game was all up for me. Several of the men began to prod through the thin
covering of dry brush. One of them reached me, and struck so hard that I
lurched violently.
That was too much for the rickety loft floor. It was only a bit of brush
laid on a netting of slender poles. It creaked, rasped, and went down with
a crash. I alighted upon somebody, and knocked him to the floor. Whoever it
was, seized me with iron hands. I was buried, almost smothered, in the
dusty mass. My captor began to curse cheerfully, and I knew then that
Herky-Jerky had made me a prisoner.
XV. THE FIGHT
Herky hauled me out of the brush, and held me in the light. The others
scrambled from under the remains of the loft, and all viewed me curiously.
"Kid, you ain't hurt much?" queried Buell, with concern.
I would have snapped out a reply, but I caught sight of Dick's pale face
and anxious eyes.
"Ken," he called, with both gladness and doubt in his voice, "you look
pretty good--but that blood. . . . Tell me, quick!"
"It's nothing, Dick, only a little cut. The bullet just ticked my arm."
Whatever Dick's reply was it got drowned in Herky-Jerky's long explosion of
strange language. Herky was plainly glad I had not been badly hurt.
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