"Then the plan succeeds so far," said Dudley. "Once I am sure that Harold and his men have finished, I will move on again. Ah, that is his signal!"
The fusillade had died down now, and for the space of two minutes the forest was sunk in silence. Then a single shot rang out, echoing sharply amidst the trees, and once more our hero heard the bullet burst its way through the tangled leaves far overhead, severing the usual shower of twigs and green.
"Time to get along," he thought. "Harold's signal is clear enough. Now for the most difficult part of the undertaking."
He was on his hands and knees in less than a second, and then commenced the same cautious crawling progress through the underwood. Twigs and dried or rotting sticks were carefully put aside, while the knife which he still carried in his hand severed the brambles with a slash. Not a rustle disturbed the stillness in his direction, though here and there, as he paused again and again to listen, rose the murmur of voices, the gentle call of men to one another. Then out came the moon, floating from behind the clouds which had ridden across her face. The pale rays shone down upon pampas and forest, and, penetrating here and there, lit up a tiny patch, making brambles and tree trunks stand out prominently. There were dozens of such bright areas, and Dudley carefully steered his course away from them, fearful lest the light should show him to the enemy. Then, of a sudden, he came to a halt again. A man was standing behind a tree some twenty yards away, his head and one shoulder illuminated by the rays falling from above. The black, shadowy line of the tree trunk cut across his body, hiding it from view, and leaving only the head and shoulder visible, as well as the rifle which he gripped in one hand. The face could be seen clearly, stern and expectant, while one ear was turned as if the gaucho was listening intently.
"He must have heard a suspicious sound," thought Dudley, his breath coming fast, while his heart pattered loudly against his ribs. "Yes, he is looking this way, and if it were not so dark I might almost think that he saw me. Ah, he does!"
It would have been a trying moment even for an old hand, experienced in this forest warfare, and the reader need think none the less of Dudley if he again shrank close to the ground and almost shivered with apprehension. It was not only that he feared this one man. A combination of circumstances had served to strain his nerves to breaking pitch; the clatter of musketry, the sharp rip of the bullets, that terrible scream, and now the uncanny silence, the darkness of the forest with these illuminated patches, in one of which stood one of the enemy.
"Was he discovered? The man's eyes were surely fixed on him. He must fire at him if he wished to escape."
The thoughts ran through Dudley's head, and for a while he felt bewildered. Then his old coolness returned to him, or at least a portion of it. He realized that it was impossible for the man to have seen him, for he lay in a wide patch of inky shadow. Perhaps he had heard some sound, and was merely suspicious. "Ah! He was calling."
The face behind the tree turned suddenly, till the back of the head was alone to be seen. Then a low call broke the silence, a call which was answered from some distance away. Presently a crash amidst the brushwood told that someone was moving, and as Dudley stared at the brilliant patch, one of the gauchos appeared, a hulking, slouching rascal, with surly features, between whose strong teeth was held a leaf which he was busily chewing. Immediately a second came upon the scene, a squat, ugly fellow whom he recognized at once as the leader of this band of desperadoes.
"If they rush at me I will get behind this tree and shoot them down," he thought, keeping his eyes on the trio, while he slipped one hand down to the pouch in which his revolver rested. "But they are not certain. The man only thinks he heard a sound. Perhaps they will go away."