“Yes,” said Brace, immediately following his companion’s example and dropping on one knee to take aim.
“Aim low, Brace,” said Briscoe. “Let’s try to cripple their legs. We don’t want to kill any of them. Aim right in the brown, as you English sportsmen say.”
“Right,” replied Brace, setting his teeth and kneeling firm as a rock, while the Indians came on at a trot, grimacing and yelling to frighten them into flight.
But they had the wrong stuff to deal with, and their eyes dilated and rings of white appeared round the irises in theft utter astonishment at seeing the
two white men calmly awaiting their onslaught, Briscoe with the stump of a cigar in his teeth, mumbling out:
“Twenty-eight—twenty-seven—twenty-six—twenty-five—fire!”
The guns went off together, and the pair sprang up and ran after their companions, to find fifty yards nearer the boat the captain and his officers down on one knee waiting to cover them.
“Well aimed!” cried the former. “You two halt to cover us just at the water’s edge. That’ll give the boys time to get aboard, and then we can laugh at the copper-skinned vermin. Look sharp and reload: they’re coming on again.”
Brace and his companion continued their retreat, overtaking the sailors with the wounded man, whom they now saw to be Jem, and had endorsement of the fact in the tones of his voice, for he was growling and abusing his bearers.