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

by F. S. Brereton

He coolly presented his revolver at the figure of Mr. Blunt, which could be dimly seen at that distance, and he pulled the trigger gently. There was a loud report at once, a report which went echoing down the river, and brought a cheer from the men rowing the smaller boat. A spout of flame shot from the muzzle, and a ball hissed across the narrow space, missed Mr. Blunt by the smallest interval, and, flying on, struck Harold Joyce on the tip of the shoulder, penetrating the muscle and emerging on the other side. A sharp cry escaped the lad, which was drowned instantly by the report of Dudley's weapon, and by a rattling volley which came from the pursuers, for the flash had lit up the scene and shown the three figures standing in the stern of the boat which they were following. However, their bullets flew wide of the mark, while the flash which had enabled them to fire proved of advantage to Dudley and his friends also. Dudley had been watching the dim figures aboard the pursuing boat, and hardly had the report of the first pistol shot died down when his own weapon cracked sharply, and the man who had fired dropped like a stone, a bullet having struck him in the very centre of the forehead.

"Two to us and one to them, I think," said Mr. Blunt cheerily. "That was a quick shot, Dudley, and will teach them caution perhaps. Now, my lad, I think you were hit. Not badly I hope."

"It is nothing, sir," came the ready answer, for once he had recovered from the first shock of the wound Harold Joyce had determined to make little of it. His old fears were forgotten and to tell the truth the lad was rather enjoying this brush with his late companions. There was now no thought of danger, only a feeling of huge relief, for had he not unburdened himself, and obtained the forgiveness of his old comrade? And with that feeling of relief was a curious and altogether novel sense of elation. He felt wonderfully cool and steady, and seeing that Dudley and Mr. Blunt were precisely the same, he took heart from that and vowed quietly to himself that if he came out of this his first engagement alive he would also emerge from it with credit to himself. And then, to think what joy it would be to him, to Harold Joyce, to know that he had done well, to feel that he had acted a man's part, had behaved like a man, he who till a few minutes before had hardly dared look an honest fellow in the face. He had not forgotten his old behavior, his despicable crime, and the cowardice and treachery to a friend which he had shown. He would never forget that as long as he lived perhaps, for it would help him to make amends, to live in the future so that no one could point the finger of scorn at him. Now was his opportunity, and he seized upon it eagerly.

"Just a little blow on the shoulder, sir," he said easily. "It is merely a pinprick, and only reminds me that they have revolvers. I owe them something, and mean to repay it. I'll try a shot."

Up till then he had not drawn trigger, but now he coolly stepped on to the rail again, peered at the black shape surging up astern, and then took a snap shot, sending a leaden messenger crashing into the middle of the group of rascals, and bringing a shout of pain from one of them. A second later Mr. Blunt had dragged him down under the rail again.

"Number three!" he said with an exclamation of pleasure. "You are doing well, Joyce. But you must not be foolhardy. Remember that the flash of your pistol gives them a chance, for it shows up your figure. They missed you by the purest chance."

Indeed the flash of his weapon had been the signal for another rattling volley from the enemy, the bullets singing over the heads of the trio, and sweeping away into the space beyond. As for the man who had been struck, he went crawling aft on hands and knees, groaning as he went.

"Within ten feet I should say," said Dudley suddenly, "and the fellow who is steering the vessel is sweeping her bow over towards us. It is nearly time to put out our pole. What are we to do supposing they grapple with us and get aboard?"

It was a difficult question to decide, and for some few seconds there was silence while the three peered away astern at the pursuers, who were steadily coming up, while Mr. Blunt cast an anxious glance ahead. The boat which he steered was now heading directly down stream, and had increased her pace. But she was showing only a little canvas, while the enemy had their sail hoisted to its full height. That the gang of ruffians would overhaul them was perfectly clear; within five minutes they would be surging alongside, with their rail grating against that of the vessel which they were pursuing.

"It is hard to say what we ought to do," he answered slowly. "They are sure to come up with us, and equally sure to lash their rail to ours. They know that we are here, and will come tumbling aboard and make a rush into the stern. Let us consider how many we shall have to meet."