CHAPTER XXXVIII
FRASER HEARS A CALL
As each man of the rescuing party splashed out upon the sandy beach before Shanty Town, he headed for the open level. There was no waiting for commands, no attempt at order; only the sound of laboured breathing, of frantic urging, of the plying of heel and fist. Butchery threatened, and a wasted moment might be the one that could have stayed the knife.
Crossing the Bend, the company was strung to a long, bedrabbled line. It was slow going. Already the horses had stood hard usage—the detour with Matthews, the return, and the severely trying swim. Fraser, given the lead, still kept it, dinging hoarse persuasion into "Buckskin's" flattened ears.
So far, the troopers had kept silent through fear for the girls' safety—fear that the hostages, if aware of pursuit, would wreak instant death. But now, as their lieutenant advanced to the shack, the men behind, while trying their utmost to gain, sent forward yell upon yell to startle the Indians into dropping their captives and seeking cover.
No whoops replied, but from the doorway, unheard, the voice of a man, "Oliver—Oliver!—here!"
As the line swung up, and by, in a circle, Fraser, weapon in hand, was down and pressing forward.
He found Lounsbury, seated on the sill, from which he rose unsteadily.
"Lounsbury! Lounsbury!"
"Quick—the coulée! They went that way—Give me a lift!"