Conniston stooped and tied his
boot-laces, that they might not trip him when he moved. He stood up
and whipped his revolver from its holster, spinning the cylinder, and
then shoving it back. And then, laying the rifle across the top of one
of the barrels, he cleared his throat and called out loudly.
One of the men nearest him heard him above the shouting and pointed
him out to another. The two laughed loudly and turned away from him,
forgetting him as they turned. Again he called, louder than before. No
one heard him, no one looked to him. He waved his hat above his head.
If any one saw, no one gave sign of seeing. He licked his lips and
lifted the rifle.
"God see me through with it!" he muttered.
He fired high above their heads. The sudden report crashed through the
babel of shoutings, a veritable babel into which half of the tongues
of Europe mingled with Chinese and Japanese sing-song. As the crack of
the gun died away all other sounds died with it. The desert grew as
suddenly still as it ever is in the depths of its man-free solitudes.
Staring, wondering faces which had first turned to one another turned
now toward him.
Again there broke out a volley of abrupt cries, followed by as sudden
a silence, as they watched him to see what he meant, what he would do.
And Conniston took quick advantage of this short hush.
"Leave that wagon, every man of you!" he shouted.
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