Wilson and Jack saw several twinkling flames, and the roar of Alex’s next shot was followed by the crash of their own weapons. A cry of agony followed, and one of the lights disappeared. Another faltered, and also went out.
Alex once more brought up his rifle, took careful aim; the jet of flame leaped from the muzzle, and with a shout the boys saw the last spot of light describe an arc in the air, and go out.
An angry howl followed, then a continuous volley from several different points. The spirit of fight had taken full possession of the three lads on the brink of the ravine, however, and lying close, they gave back shot for shot, quickly but steadily. Finally a lull came, and Alex rose exultingly on an elbow and shouted below, “Come on, you cowards! Come—”
From behind one of the bridge pillars leaped a flame, and with a sharp intake of breath Alex slipped sideways. But as Wilson and Jack sprang to his side he again rose. “It’s nothing,” he declared. “Just a graze inside the arm.”
The quiet continuing, the others insisted on removing Alex’s coat, and feeling, found the shirt-sleeve wet. “Tie a handkerchief round it,” Alex directed. “There. That’s all right.
“That’s what I get for allowing myself to be carried away, isn’t it?” he added as Wilson and Jack helped him into his coat. “I didn’t realize how—”
All three snatched up their weapons and spun about.
A tall stooped figure was standing within a few feet of them.
“Surrender!” cried Wilson. “Quick, or I’ll—”
“It me, Little Hawk,” said a quiet voice. “Why shoot?”