“Great Heaven!” ejaculated Carpenter. “They are sinking into a quicksand—hurrah!”
“They war makin’ a serround and got cotched—hooray!” shouted the guide; then the voice of Cimarron Jack rung out:
“Give it to ’em boys—give it to ’em! aim steady till I count three, and then—one!”
Up went the guns, each man taking a struggling, sinking savage.
“Two!”
A steady dead aim.
“Three!”
Crash—shriek! and then a cloud of dense, sluggish smoke obscured the river. They had no more than lowered their rifles when a shrill yell arose behind them, and a rush of feet was heard. Cimarron Jack dropped his rifle and drew his knife and revolver, facing round.
“Draw, boys—draw! barkers and knives. A surround! here comes t’other gang behind us—draw quick and don’t faze!”
They drew, each a knife and revolver, and faced round, fearing nothing from the helpless band behind, some of whom must be dead. They did so just in time.