“If there’s one Indian there’s more,” said Morgan, excitedly. “Quick, sir, ram the bullet well down. We must make for the boat. Where’s that boy Pomp?”
“No,” said Hannibal, shaking his head; “gone, gone. Han look for him; saw Indian and Mass’ George.”
“And you fired and saved my life,” I cried, catching his hand, as I gave him back the reloaded piece.
He smiled at me, and shook his head sadly as I exclaimed—
“Now then to find Pomp, and get back to the boat.”
I had hardly uttered the words when there was a yell, and four savages dashed out of the forest toward us, knife in one hand, axe in the other. They were not twenty yards away, and I raised my heavy piece to my shoulder as I saw Morgan let his barrel fall into one hand and fire.
A hideous yell followed, and one of the Indians leaped in the air. I saw no more for the smoke, but I drew trigger too, and staggered back with the violent concussion of the piece.
Then I stood aghast at what followed, for as the smoke lifted I saw an Indian spring on Morgan, and Hannibal drop the gun he held as the other two Indians rushed at him axe in hand, yelling horribly.
Then in what seemed to me was a nightmare dream, I saw Morgan seize the Indian’s hand, and they closed in a desperate struggle, while on my other side Hannibal was battling with two, and I was helpless to assist either, and—well, I was a boy of sixteen or so, and how could I at close quarters like that try to shed blood?
True, in the excitement of the flight in the boat, I had loaded and fired again and again as the Indians kept sending their arrows at us; but all I could do now was to drop my own piece and run to pick up the one Hannibal had dropped.