He stopped short, having received a violent push from Dave, who stood close at hand, under the shelter of a thick tree branch. As the leader of the expedition fell an arrow whizzed by his side, and buried itself in the dirt between the rocks.
“The redskins!” cried Henry. “They are behind us!”
“They are surrounding us,” put in Gilfoy.
Another arrow and still another whizzed through the air, and Shamer was struck in the arm. Then came a fierce yell from the forest, which was answered by another from the lake front.
“They must number twenty or thirty,” said Dave.
“We are caught like rats in a trap!” ejaculated Henry. His eyes began to blaze. “We’ve got to fight for it—and fight our best, too!”
Another yell sounded out and several Indians appeared, hideous in their warpaint. More arrows were fired—one grazing Henry’s hand—and eight of the warriors leaped toward the shelter, flourishing their tomahawks.
“Fire on ’em. Don’t waste a bullet!” sang out Silvers, and brought his long rifle to bear on the leading Indian. As the weapon rang out the red man leaped upward and fell in a heap, the bullet having pierced his brain.
The firing now became general and soon the shelter by the rocks was filled with smoke, so that but little could be seen. Dave was beside Henry, and both discharged their muskets at the enemy, and they saw two more Indians stagger and fall back. Then a tomahawk came whizzing through the air, and poor Gilfoy went down to rise no more. Shamer was also hit in the leg; and the din became frightful.
“We must get out of here,” cried Raymond, catching Dave by the arm. “Come on!”