We had left the sandhills behind us, and were racing across a broad expanse of tawny, hard sand.
What would the blacks do? That was the torturing question.
The band of pirates were pouring over the sandhills, yelling as they came and brandishing their weapons with fierce gestures. They were, however, a hundred yards in the rear and to the right of us. Every moment I expected them to open fire on us; but I suppose they were anxious to capture us alive, and I felt sure that we were caught in a trap—hemmed in between them and their allies the blacks.
Oh, how slowly that boat came lumbering along over the waves! I eyed her with astonishment.
We had recognized the chief and Miguel as heading the pursuing band. There was no mistaking them. Thank God, they had not the other bloodhound with them. What could have become of the brute?
I fingered my pistol, ready for a scrimmage at close quarters. It seemed inevitable.
CHAPTER XXIV.
DEATH OF MIGUEL.
Ned turned to us suddenly, and I thought there was a wild look in his eyes. The beads of perspiration clustered thick on his forehead, and his cheeks were burning.
“We’ll escape ’em yet!” he cried in excited tones, which nevertheless had a ring of triumph in them. “Let’s swim out to the boat, scramble on board, and take possession of her!”
Here was an audacious idea with a vengeance!