“That’s just what I am afraid about. The niggers are better runners than they are, and more at home on the ground, and they could catch up to them at once, only they like to tackle their enemies at a distance. Look!”
“Yes, I see,” said Brace, whose breath came and went as if he had been running hard, and his eyes dilated when he saw that, as the men tore off through the various obstacles of rock, bush, and tree, the Indians suddenly began to slacken their pace and prepare their bows.
“Ah, we must put a stop to that, gentlemen,” cried the captain. “Give them something to put an end to those games.”
A low murmur of acquiescence arose, and guns were levelled, but no shot rang out.
“Can’t fire yet, skipper,” growled Briscoe. “I could pick off a man or two with a rifle easily, but I’m not loaded with ball, and these buckshot scatter so. I don’t want to hurt any of our own chaps if I can help it.”
“And they’re too far off from us as yet,” said Brace excitedly.
“Well, they’ll soon shorten the distance,” growled the captain; and then he clapped his hand to the side of his mouth and yelled to his mutineers: “Now, run, you lubbers! Don’t go to sleep. Run as if you meant it.”
Taang!
“Bah! he’s got it,” cried the captain.
There was the dull half-musical sound of a bowstring, and to Brace’s horror one of their flying men made a spasmodic jump into the air and came down upon hands and knees, his nearest messmates passing on some twenty yards before they could check their speed; and then, in the midst of the thrill of excitement which ran through the occupants of the boats, the retreating party paused, and dashed back to help their fallen mate.