Sitting thus, a premonition of danger oppressed him with such force and
suddenness that it caused him to throw himself quickly backward. At
the exact instant that his back struck the lumber piled behind him he
heard the sharp, vicious crack of a rifle, and a bullet thudded dully
into one of the wooden stanchions of the wagon frame at the edge of the
seat. Another report followed it quickly, and Calumet flung himself
headlong toward the rear of the wagon, where he lay for a brief
instant, alert, rigid, too full of rage for utterance.
But he was not too angry to think. The shots, he knew, had come from
the left of the wagon. They had been too close for comfort, and
whoever had shot at him was a good enough marksman, although, he
thought, with a bitter grin, a trifle too slow of movement to do any
damage to him.
His present position was precarious and he did not stay long in it.
Close to the side of the wagon--the side opposite that from which the
shots had come--was a shallow gully, deep enough to conceal himself in
and fringed at the rear by several big boulders. It was an ideal
position and Calumet did not hesitate to take advantage of it.
Dropping from the rear of the wagon, he made a leap for the gully,
landing in its bottom upon all fours. He heard a crash, and a bullet
flattened itself against one of the rocks above his head.
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