“Eight.”
“Then don’t take any more with you. They will be sufficient until the arrows commence to fly, and then I want you with us here. That reminds me, I told Hope-Jones and Harvey to blaze away, regardless of aim, with their shot-guns for a time, but I suppose you understand the same does not apply to the rifles. We must make every shot count.”
“Never fear for that. Will you give me a boost now, sir? They will be coming any minute.”
“Yes. Help me, Hope-Jones. Steady me a bit,” and the Peruvian stood upright against the rock and told the Englishman to press against his back. “Leave your rifle, Ferguson, and we will pass it up to you.”
By stepping on a stone the American obtained a foothold on the señor’s shoulders, then reaching up, he caught a ledge of rock and bringing into practice an exercise he had learned on the horizontal bars, he drew himself with ease to the ledge, from which he scrambled to the surface.
“Quick!” he exclaimed, the moment he looked around. “Pass me my rifle. They are coming! I can see them down the river! Gracious, what a band of them!”
At the captain’s direction, Harvey jumped on his shoulders as Ferguson had done and passed the repeating rifle to his companion, then the Peruvian and the Englishman took positions at the peep-holes, while the lad stood back, waiting.
If the truth be told his heart was beating like it had on days after a boat race, and he felt the blood surging to his temples. There was an instant after Ferguson said that the Indians were coming that he felt dizzy. But it passed almost as soon as it had come, and he bit his lip until it bled, for he was angry that any alarm should have seized him. The moment this feeling of anger came, he was surprised to note that his heart commenced to beat normally, that the fever left his cheeks, and that he became self-possessed. And from that moment he became as cool and collected as any one in the little fort.
“How far are they off?” called out Señor Cisneros.
“A half mile, sir,” answered the voice from above.