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.