Roughriders of the Pampas: A Tale of Ranch Life in South America

by F. S. Brereton

"I have nothing," answered Harold promptly. "I left my revolver behind. I was afraid of the weight."

"Then here is one, and don't be afraid to use it. Those rascals will shoot you as if you were a dog. They have no qualms about taking human life, and if you want to get out of this trouble you must be just as ready to kill them. Dudley, can we do anything else?"

"We might keep them from boarding by pushing out one of the poles," he answered. "If they can get within six feet they will jump aboard, and then we shall not have a chance. We are swinging round rapidly now, and at the rate they are coming down they will strike our stern, I fancy. I'll go over there with this pole, and push them away if possible."

"While I and this young gentleman shoot down those who wish to pay us a visit. Ah, there they are! The dogs are barking with a vengeance. Come along with me, sir, and remember to keep below the rail. Those fellows over there on the wharf might get your figure against a white patch in the sky, and they are wonderful shots. Don't show more than you can help, and when you shoot, shoot quickly, and duck again."

Harold Joyce gripped the revolver which had been handed to him, and followed Mr. Blunt along the deck to the spot where Dudley had already taken up his station with the pole. It was a new experience to him to find himself in actual danger of his life, but up to this moment he had had no opportunity of considering the situation. The fact of finding himself aboard a vessel containing a gang of cut-throats had helped not a little to make up his mind to accept the risk of swimming to the other vessel, though to do him justice he was eager to play a man's game in the matter, and do what was his obvious duty. But even then, once his decision was made, and he had slid into the river, the need for exertion and for caution had filled his thoughts, so that he was able to give little attention to the subject of personal danger, though, to be sure, he felt extremely uncomfortable when he remembered the revolvers which the gang had so openly displayed, and the fact that a bullet might soon be hissing after him. Now, however, as he crouched behind the rail of the ship and watched the other boat slowly approaching, he had a moment or two to realize his position, and the fact that the gang he had so lately left would stop at nothing. He could see that if they could only board the ship upon which he crouched, he and his two companions would certainly be shot. Even if the gang were unsuccessful in reaching the vessel, it was certain that bullets would be flying, and, supposing one came his way, supposing he was killed!

The thought made him shudder. He shivered from head to foot, and for one brief second felt inclined to dive into the cabin and hide his head there in the farthest corner. But he conquered the impulse. He looked at the dark figure crouching beside him, and heard Mr. Blunt's voice.

"Just remember what I said, lad," he whispered. "Keep down and shoot quickly. And, my lad, now that I have a second, let me thank you for your warning. You risked much, and have placed yourself in a position of great danger. I shall hope to be able, later, to thank you for behaving like a gallant gentleman."

The words came in the nick of time. Harold Joyce, the lad who had been noted at school for frivolity, for indecision, for shirking games in which personal injury might be incurred, heard himself described as a gallant gentleman. Remembering what despicable courage he had once displayed, when he allowed his old comrade to be branded as a thief, he winced at the words. Then he lifted his head, for this young fellow had still the makings of an honorable man in him. He had been undecided once. He had shown the most lamentable want of courage. But that was in the past. He, too, had suffered, and had learnt his lesson. Long ago he had made up his mind never to rest till he had set the matter of Dudley's expulsion right. He had declared his guilt before the whole school, so that our hero's name was now as bright there as ever. And now he had come out to South America with one solitary and praiseworthy object. He had taken advantage of the liberal allowance made by his father to come in search of Dudley, to meet him face to face, and tell him what had happened. Then, if possible, he would obtain his forgiveness. Indeed, Harold Joyce's conscience had done much for his wavering resolution already. He had shown to all at home an honest and steady intention to reform, and was he going at this moment to show his old indecision under the very eyes of the one who had suffered for his fault in the past? Never! The lad closed his teeth firmly, gripped his revolver, and swore beneath his breath to fight hard for his old friend, to do something more than he had already accomplished that night, so as to show him that Harold Joyce had something good left in him yet.

"What if I am killed?" he thought. "Then Dudley will never know what has happened. He will not know that he is cleared, and why I have come out here. There is time to tell him now. We are swinging fast, and that boat is still ten feet away. I'll do it."

He crept a pace nearer to our hero and touched his leg.