“Now we are in for it. I think we had better stick it out together,” said Alex quietly. “Perhaps the firing will be heard at the train.”
The others agreed, and at Wilson’s suggestion they made their way a few feet down the slope to a ledge from which the whole structure of the bridge could dimly be seen.
“How are you fellows off for ammunition?” whispered Wilson.
“I have four more rounds in the rifle, and thirty in my belt,” said Jack.
“Five in the gun and twenty-seven in the belt,” Alex announced.
Wilson had been examining the revolver and belt they had taken from the prisoner, and which he had brought with him. “Fourteen in the two pistols and nearly sixty in the two belts,” he said.
“We ought to be able to put up all kinds of a fight,” Alex declared confidently. “That is, unless they—”
He broke off, and all leaned forward, peering down into the gloom, and listening. From a little to the left rose the clatter of a pebble. Wilson stretched himself on his face, and bent over, one of his pistols extended. Barely breathing, they waited, and again came a faint clatter as of loosened earth, nearer.
“Don’t let him get too close,” Alex whispered.
There came the sound of something snapping, a smothered exclamation, and instantly Wilson fired. There was a shrill cry, and the crash of something rolling downward. At the same moment from below came a crashing volley of shots, and bullets snarled upward by them like a swarm of bees. The boys shrank back flat, then leaned over and returned two quick volleys.