“they won’t try that again,” i said.
“no; ’tain’t likely. but they’ll try somethin’. don’t you ever b’lieve they’re goin’ to g-g-give up.”
“we’ve got ’em beat easy,” says i.
mark shook his head. “i could tell ’em somethin’,” says he, “that would lick us in a minute.”
“it’s lucky we’re fightin’ against them instead of you,” says i, sarcastic-like. “how’d you go about it to capture the cave?”
“well,” says he, “the first thing i’d do would be to make sh-sh-sh-sh—”
“whistle,” says i.
“shields,” he finished up with a rush.
nothing to it, was there, except thinking of it? it would be the simplest thing in the world for batten and bill to come climbing right up in our faces if they were sheltered from our pebbles behind some kind of a shield. they could keep right on a-coming and laugh at us while they were doing it.
“they’ll never think of it,” says i.
“it’s only a question of time,” stuttered mark. “what i’m wonderin’ is, will they think of it before help comes from wicksville?”
it looked as if batten and bill were going to settle down to starve us out—a regular siege. they knew, of course, that we two boys couldn’t carry off the engine; but, then, they must have guessed that they couldn’t keep us bottled up very long. they had seen sammy, and sammy was gone. if i had been in their shoes i would have reasoned out that he was gone for help. we knew he wasn’t gone for anything but to get away from the poor-farm man, but what we knew didn’t help batten and bill.
we sat and watched them, and they sat and watched us. once in a while one of them would get up and move around, but for a half-hour by mark’s watch they didn’t make a hostile advance.
“they ain’t got as much sense as i give ’em credit for,” mark says.
“i hope they don’t git more’n they’ve got,” says i.
“if they hain’t clean foolish,” he says, “they’ll figger it out pretty soon.”
“if it was back in the time of knights and armor and them things,” i told him, “they’d think of shields quick. but nobody civilized has used sich things for hundreds of years. men jest stand up and git shot. that’s why they don’t git the idee. maybe batten and bill ain’t educated so’s they know about armor.”
“i should think,” says mark, deliberate-like, “they’d git educated. nobody’d have to shoot me with pebbles more’n a dozen times before i thought of gittin’ behind somethin’ or other.”
men are never as quick planning things as boys. and when they do scheme something out it generally isn’t as good. you take a boy and he’ll hit on more good things in an hour than a man will in a week. it doesn’t look to me as though imaginations grew up with most men; they leave them behind somewheres before they git old enough to vote.
after a while we saw bill jump up and take a jack-knife out of his pocket. he looked around searching, and then went over to a clump of willows which he began to cut down and throw in a pile.
“what’s that for?” i wanted to know.
mark scratched his head. “they’ve decided on somethin’,” says he, “but what it is i don’t see clear.”
bill kept on cutting and cutting till he had a big pile of green boughs. when he had enough he sat down by them with his back toward us and began doing something to them—we couldn’t see what.
“he’s makin’ some sort of a contraption,” i says.
“i’ll bet,” says mark, “it’s some kind of a sh-sh-sh—”
“shield,” i finished for him.
“that’s it,” says he.
batten walked over by bill and commenced to work, too. they fiddled around ten or fifteen minutes, and we could hear them talking and laughing, but they were so far away we couldn’t hear what they said. i wished we could have.
mark drew a long breath. “this,” says he, “is the end of the battle. we’re licked!”
“maybe not.”
he just smiled sort of regretful. “we’re licked,” he says again, “but we hain’t disgraced. we kept on fightin’ as long as we could.”
“and we’ll keep on some more,” i said sharp. “they ain’t got us or the turbine yet.”
“they’ll git us,” he says, and then grinned sly-like, with that cunning look to his eyes that always comes into them when he’s got a scheme. “they’ll git us, but maybe they’ll be consid’rable disapp’inted about the t-t-t—”
“turbine,” says i. “how so? if they git to the cave they’ll have it, won’t they?”
“it looks that way,” says he, “but you never can tell.”
i got up and looked inside. there, covered up with the sheets, was the engine, so i knew mark was only talking to encourage me.
batten and bill stood up and faced around to us so we could see what they had been making.
“there!” says mark. “what’d i tell you?”
sure enough. they had made shelters out of those willow branches. not shields, but just big green bundles tied together with handkerchiefs and string. they were so big that when batten and bill held them up nothing but their feet showed.
right off they started up the hill. the attack commenced.
“shoot,” says mark, “and keep on shootin’.”
“you bet!” i whispered to myself.
the enemy looked like two walking brush-heaps. honest, it was kind of funny to see them crawling up-hill, and then, on the other hand, it wasn’t comical at all, for there was no stopping them. the minute they stepped into range we began firing, but our pebbles spatted against the shields and didn’t do a bit of harm. once in a while we managed to clip batten on the leg or bill on the arm, but that was all.
on they came, slow as snails, but getting nearer and nearer. we peppered at them as fast as we could set stones in our slings, but we might as well have been shooting into the river with the idea of hitting a fish. they meant business, too; you could tell it by the way they kept coming without saying a word, grim-like. i began to shake in the knees, but mark was as steady as a tree. i was willing to give up and scoot, but he never budged, just drew back his rubbers and whanged away as if he was shooting at a target. cool! he was so cool the breeze across him got chilly.
now the enemy was only sixty feet down, now fifty, now forty. up, up they came, closer and closer. we could hear them panting, and the sound of their hands clutching and their feet crunching into the bank. once in a while the loose earth would give away and one of them would slip back a few feet. the only good that did was, maybe, to give us a shot back at the shield. you can be good and sure we never let a chance slip.
thirty feet! twenty-five feet! twenty feet! the nearer they came the louder my heart beat and the more my knees wabbled. i know how a soldier feels just before he turns and runs—and i know why he doesn’t turn and run: it’s because the soldier next to him doesn’t; it’s because he’s ashamed to have the other soldiers think he’s more afraid than they are. mark showed no more signs of running than a saw horse, so i stayed on.
all the time i’d been saving up one last hope. when batten and bill were scrambling onto the shelf in front of the cave i turned and hauled myself up the slope to my big boulder where i’d left the lever.
“git to one side, mark!” i yelled.
he edged over ten feet to the right. bill and batten kept right on. the cave was under their noses, and the turbine was in the cave. that was all they thought of right then, i guess. they were going to get it back! they had lost it after all their trouble, and now they were going to get it again. neither of them offered to bother mark; they made straight for the cave and the engine.
“look out below!” i shouted.
they looked up and stopped sudden, so sudden they almost toppled over backward.
“keep away from the cave,” says i, “or i’ll push the stone over!”
batten scowled like he’d have been glad to bite me. “you get away from there. drop that lever and come down here!”
“i’ll drop nothin’,” says i, “unless it’s this stone onto your head.”
i never would have dared to push it over on them, even to save the engine. i don’t believe any boy would. but batten didn’t know as much about boys as i did, and the boulder looked mighty dangerous from below. they stood right where they were.
“we’ll get you,” says bill; and he started to go around and come up after me. batten went the other way so they could take me on both sides at once. i waited until they were almost reaching out for me, and then i toppled over the stone. it wasn’t with any idea of hitting them, for they were out of line, but it did seem to me we might gain a few minutes’ time if the boulder would drop in front of the door of the cave and stick so they’d have to move it before they could get in. every minute was valuable now, for it was past noon, and help must be on the way.
when i toppled the stone i jumped after it and struck in the soft sand on all fours. the boulder had slipped down, gouging a groove out of the face of the hill, and stopped right in front of the door! it had fallen so straight, and the sand was so soft, it hadn’t rolled a mite—just sunk in about six inches and closed up the lower part of the entrance to the cave. there was a foot or so of room above, but it would be hard for a big man to squeeze through, and impossible to get the turbine out until it was moved away.
mark stood over at the side, looking at me surprised.
“tallow,” says he, “that was a b-b-bully idee!”
“here they come,” i says.
batten and bill didn’t lose any time, but slid back to the shelf. when they saw the stone they talked about it quite a bit and not polite. it tickled me to hear how mad they were.
“wait,” says batten to me, “till we get the engine out, and we’ll look after you.”
“i won’t be here,” says i. “good-by!”
i started to get up and go away from there, but mark whispers: “wait a minute. don’t run yet.”
batten and bill puffed and hauled and sweated rolling the stone out of the way. it took them five minutes to make a clear way, and you’d better believe it was no easy job. all tired out as they were, they rushed into the cave without waiting to rest. i heard mark make a funny noise in his throat, but his face was sober as a sunday-school superintendent’s.
i looked in after the men. batten jumped for the covered engine and jerked the sheet off. well, sir, i just fell backward onto the sand. i couldn’t believe what i saw, for under the sheet was nothing in the world but a heap of dry boughs. the engine was gone!
batten and bill stood like they were frozen solid, their mouths open. then batten made a noise that sounded between a roar and a growl and kicked the brush-pile.
“it ain’t there,” says bill.
batten rushed out of the cave, almost bumping his head on the roof, and pounced on me. he took me by the collar and shook me. “where is it?” he yelled. “where is it?”
i felt of my neck to see if it was all there, and then answered him, sort of strangled:
“i dunno. i thought it was there.”
he looked at me, and i guess the surprise was still plain on my face. “i thought it was there,” i said again. “honest!”
“did that indian take it with him?”
“not that i know of,” i says.
bill broke in then. “it must be here somewhere, or they wouldn’t have stayed around to fight. what did they try to keep us out for?”
that was what i wanted to know. if mark knew the engine was gone, why did he stay around instead of making for home? i couldn’t understand.
“maybe there’s a hiding-place in there,” bill said.
they both hurried into the cave again and poked all around, hunting for another opening and prodding the floor to see if we had buried the turbine. of course they couldn’t find anything, because there wasn’t anything there.
out they came again.
“that fat kid knows, i’ll bet,” says bill.
they looked around for him and so did i, but he was gone.
