"Perros amarillos! Yellow dogs! You go upstream, fools! The Americans must be taken—"
A raucous sneer from Julio interrupted him. Simultaneously the paddler's hand leaped upward, poising a knife.
"The gringos stay here—and you, too, you Yanqui cur!"
The poised knife hissed through the air at José.
Out from the crew house shot a streak of fire and a smashing rifle report.
José dodged, staggered, screeched in feline fury, the knife buried in his left arm.
McKay grunted suddenly, fell, lay still.
"God!" yelled Tim. "Cap's gone! Clean 'em, Looey!"
With the words he leaped aside and pulled his pistol, just as another rifle flare stabbed out from the other hut and a bullet whisked through the space where he had stood. An instant later he was pouring a stream of lead at the spot whence the burning powder had leaped.
Knives flashing, teeth gleaming, the other paddlers charged across the ten-foot space between the huts.