"Get down," he said sharply. "I saw what was happening by the flash. We are travelling as fast as they are. Probably faster, for we are almost broadside on, and the stream has more hold on us. Did I hit?"
A sharp cry had followed his shot, showing that in all probability it had hit the mark, but still as Dudley looked over the rail he could see the tall figure of the rascal who had fired at him. The man stood stock-still, making no effort to retaliate, and if only he had been nearer, and the night not so intensely dark, they would have seen that he was gripping the rail convulsively. For the bullet which Mr. Blunt had fired had struck the ruffian hard, so hard, in fact, that it was a wonder that the man did not fall to the deck at once. But he was one of those individuals possessed of enormous resolution and courage. He knew that he was badly hit at once. He felt as if his last moment had come, and yet he would not give in. He clung to the rail and swayed backward and forward giddily. He endeavored to turn and call to his followers, but the effort nearly brought him to the deck. Then he stared at Dudley again, made a frantic attempt to pick up the weapon which had dropped at his feet, and then, of a sudden, collapsed on to the rail of the ship. There was a loud crash as the flimsy rail gave way, and then a dull splash. The leader of the gang of ruffians had met his end in the waters of the River Paraná.
"One rascal the less," said Mr. Blunt coolly, lifting his head to look over the rail. "He at least will not trouble us again."
"Then we may escape altogether," broke in Harold. "That man was the ringleader of the gang. He was an Italian, and the sailor told me that he had been appointed leader by some friend who had in particular selected you for the first attack."
"Ah! Is that so? Tell me more, lad."
"There is little to tell you," said Harold in a whisper, as he watched the following boat. "It seems that the men aboard, and those whom you hired, had formed themselves into a gang some four weeks ago, with the intention of going up on to the pampas and robbing the ranchers."
"Robbing! That is a mild term. Shooting them is more correct."
Mr. Blunt spoke very deliberately and coolly. There was not a tremor in his voice, and he seemed to be absolutely unaffected by the excitement of the moment. Indeed he might have forgotten the very existence of the gang of ruffians for all that his listeners could tell. Dudley, as he watched the pursuers, secretly admired the courage of this employer of his. He had never before seen him actually in such a dilemma, but he had long ago come to the conclusion that Mr. Blunt was just the man to go through an engagement without showing a trace of fear or even of excitement. And now his opinion of the man was proved to be correct. Mr. Blunt was questioning Harold Joyce in cool, matter-of-fact tones which showed his calmness and courage.
"Yes, it would appear that that is their intention," said Harold, still in the same low tones. "From what the sailor told me they intended to pay a round of visits, commencing with your estancia, for you are nearest to the Indians, and, so far as I could gather, there seemed to be some special reason why you should be made a victim."
"That is right, lad. There is a reason. Well do I know it. But go on. There is time, for if I am not mistaken we are increasing our distance from those rascals every second. I cannot understand why they do not pack themselves into the stern and blaze at us with their weapons. But, go on, lad."