It was quite time, for the Indians, encouraged by the cessation of the firing, and seeing that some one was wounded, were coming on well abreast of us. But the first shot warned them, and the two which followed sent them once more back under cover, leaving one of their number, to Pomp’s great delight, motionless among the canes.
“Ha, ha!” he laughed; “you cotch it dis time, sah. How you like feel de shot, eh? You no ’tick arrow froo poor lil nigger hand again, you no—Oh, Mass’ George, look dah!”
For the prostrate man suddenly rolled over, half rose, darted amongst the canes, and we could see by his movements that he was rapidly getting ahead. Then another and another darted to him, and to our misery we saw that they were making for a wooded point a couple of hundred yards ahead.
“Mean to take us between two fires,” said my father, who was coolly reloading, in spite of the arrows which kept on dropping down in and about the boat as the Indians sent them right up in the air.
“Morgan!” shouted my father.
“Yes, sir.”
“Turn your fire in the other direction, and drive those fellows out of that clump of trees on the point.”
“Yes, sir.”
The next minute there was a sharp report, and then another.
“That’s right, boy,” said my father to Pomp, who was eagerly watching him reloading, and handing the ammunition. “Why, George— Ah, that arrow was near; did it hurt you?”