Harvey sprang to his task and tore away the small branches. The crackle of a match was heard, and, just as angry, copper-colored faces showed at the opening, the captain called out:—
“Duck down, everybody!”
The next instant a report as of a cannon was heard, followed by screeches and howls; and a cloud of white smoke drifted away before a light breeze that had sprung up, while a crackle as of giant fire-crackers told of the exploding cartridges with which the gourd had been loaded.
“Out and after them!” screamed the señor, seizing his rifle and pushing his way through the opening, in which act he was followed by the three companions.
But they met none in combat. The Indians were fleeing, running in a confused mass along the river bank, shrieking in their fear. Two or three picked up their bows as they sped, and turning, let fly each an arrow, then joined the others; but the majority never turned. The defenders of the little fort followed for several hundred yards, firing as they went, not in endeavor to kill more, for they did not stop to take aim, but to spread the alarm; until at last loss of breath caused a halt. But the Majeronas, greatly reduced in numbers, kept on, their howls growing fainter and fainter, until they were heard no more, and the last of the savages disappeared down the river.
“Do you think they will come back?” panted Hope-Jones.
“No. They believe they attacked a band of devils. There is no longer danger.”
“Where’s Harvey?” It was Ferguson who asked.
They looked around, and their cheeks blanched. The boy was not with them.