“Right you are.”
Away they went along the main road. But though they started off thus rapidly they were too late to escape observation, and a second later a fierce cry rent the air, and they were called upon, in Chinese, to halt.
“They are Chunchuses!” muttered Gilbert. “Now, Ben, we must ride if we never rode before! If those barbarians catch us, I don’t know what they won’t do to us!”
“Torture us to death, more than likely!”
This was no idle speech upon Ben’s part. He had heard all about the Chunchuses, who are nothing more or less than Chinese bandits or brigands. Large bodies of Chunchuses roam through Manchuria and other parts of China, holding up people wherever they can, and stealing all they can get within their grasp. Some of the more savage of them delight in torturing their victims, in the hope of learning where money or other valuables have been hidden. The war had made some of them particularly bold, and on more than one occasion Russian detachments had been sent out to shoot them down without mercy wherever found.
The road ahead of the two young Americans had several turns, so they hoped to be able to throw the Chunchuses off the track should a side path appear while their pursuers were out of sight. They spurred their horses on at top speed, and the animals responded as best they could, considering the limited rest they had had after their night’s travel.
“I’m afraid we are not gaining much,” said Gilbert, as they heard the shouts of the Chinese bandits behind them. “Their horses must be fresh;” which was a fact.
Soon came a more open patch of the road, and here the young Americans tried to increase their speed. But this was impossible, and gradually the Chunchuses drew closer.
“Stop, or we’ll fire on you!” sang out the leader of the bandits, and then a bullet whizzed between Gilbert and Ben.
“This is getting hot,” muttered Gilbert. “If they—hullo!”