His uncle was so clearly in his field of vision that, without looking at him, Avon did not miss the slightest movement, but his whole attention was fixed on the window, and it was well it was so.
“Look! look! Avon, do you see that?”
It was his aunt who uttered the terrified question with a gasp, as she pointed at the narrow opening.
The youth had observed the object which appalled the lady; the muzzle of a gun was slowly gliding through the window.
Captain Shirril had been discovered, and the Comanche was fixing his weapon in position to fire a fatal shot. He might have stood back a couple of paces and discharged it without revealing his presence, but a better aim could be secured by thrusting a few inches of the barrel into the room.
At the instant the dark muzzle showed itself and the gleam of the firelight was reflected from it, Avon leaned his own rifle against the door at his side, quickly drew his revolver from the holster at his hip, sprang forward like a cat, and seizing the 23 muzzle of the gun threw it upward toward the ceiling.
It was done in the nick of time, for the Comanche pressed the trigger just then, and the bullet which, had Avon’s action been delayed a single moment, would have killed Captain Shirril, was buried in the timbers overhead.
The daring act brought the youth directly in front of the window, where for the instant he was exposed to any shot from the outside.
As he made the leap he saw the face of the warrior, agleam with paint and distorted with passion, but slightly flustered by the unaccountable occurrence. Before he could recover, and at the same instant, Avon darted his revolver through the shattered window pane and let fly with two chambers in quick succession. An ear-splitting screech and a heavy fall left little doubt of the success of the daring act. The Comanche had not only been hit, but hit hard.