Chapter Twenty Seven.
An Awkward Scrape.
The first impulse of Oliver Lane was to drop down flat upon the sun-baked sand and earth, so as to protect himself from being seen in the glare of the blue light. His example was followed by the others, whose thoughts reverted also to the possibility of a bullet intended for the enemy, hitting a friend.
And there they lay listening after the dying out of the yells, and watching the glare from the blue light as it lit up the surroundings of the brig, and then sank lower and lower till all was darkness as well as silence.
Judging from what they heard, Mr Rimmer and his men were safe enough so far, and had been aware of the Indians’ attack. But what was to come next?
The watchers asked themselves this question as they lay close together listening for the slightest sound, waiting for a solution of the little problem which had so much to do with their future: Had the enemy seen them when the light was burning?
Long-drawn-out minutes passed as they waited in the darkness, now hopeful, now despondent, for Oliver felt a touch on his arm simultaneously with a soft, rustling sound, and the pat, pat of naked feet going over the sand.
The message of danger was silently telegraphed by a touch to the others, and every weapon was grasped, those who had guns slightly raising the muzzles, while Smith took out his jack-knife to open it with his teeth, and Wriggs, to use his own words—afterwards spoken—“stood by” with the ladder, meaning to use it as a battering-ram to drive it at any enemy who approached.
But the sound passed over to their right, and all was silent again.