The spear points were of steel, ground to a sharp point. They had a greenish, corroded look, which suggested that they had been poisoned. Judging this to be the case, Bob put forth every effort to avoid being pricked or scratched by the flourished weapons.
Seizing the handle of the spear held by the man who had fallen, Bob wrenched it away and swept it around his head in a circle. The other four savages leaped back to the edge of the circle and continued their hostile demonstrations. The fellow on the ground, who evidently possessed a large amount of courage, reached up abruptly and caught hold of the spear.
With exultant shouts, the other four began to close in. Hampered in using the spear, Bob found it necessary to change his tactics. Releasing the weapon, he laid hold of the native to whom it belonged, grabbed him about the waist, and flung him heavily against the foremost of his companions.
The men were all of short stature, although heavily muscled and of great strength. The human missile launched by Bob overset the first of the four advancing Indians, and this man, in his turn, tumbled backward and knocked down another. The remaining two were between Bob and the end of the valley it would be necessary for him to traverse in order to regain the boat.
Flourishing his fists and shouting an angry command for them to clear his path, he leaped directly at them. One of them launched his spear. Bob ducked downward, and the weapon whipped over his head, just grazing his cap.
This unarmed native was the one Bob speedily made up his mind to pass. But again the unexpected happened. As Bob dashed forward a stone gave way under his foot. He sought vainly to recover his balance, and plunged headlong and rolled over and over.
Before he could get up all the natives were upon him. It looked, just at that moment, as though nothing could save him. Yet he did not give up. Rising to his knees, he caught the ankles of one of his foes and jerked his feet out from under him.
A fierce order in an unknown tongue was given, and four figures sprang with murderous celerity to obey it. At that juncture—a critical juncture for Bob Steele—the sharp, incisive note of a revolver rang out. One of the savages, with a cry of pain, stepped backward, dropped his spear, and clasped his right wrist with his left hand.
There followed another shot, accompanied by a sound of running feet in the shingle and the loud voice of Glennie:
“Get away from there, you scoundrels! I’ll give you a taste of more metal if you don’t clear out.”