He started round to look behind him towards the terraced fortress he had left, but all was quiet there and no sign visible of Ned or any one to play any trick.
Then again something—something, he knew not what; but it was as if a pebble had fallen from the sky.
“Not going to hail, is it?” thought Chris; and then he laughed at the absurdity of the idea, for the sky was perfectly clear.
Rap!
Another something fallen from on high, but the mystery was at an end, for he not only saw it falling but where it had struck, to stick quivering and nearly upright amongst the grass.
An arrow, and from its slope it must have come from the unexplored side of the valley, and been shot high in the air for it to stand so nearly upright in the grass.
“Indians on the other side,” thought Chris, and his first thought was to run round the grazing animals and drive them towards the part where they had made their camp.
He started to do this, but stopped at once, uttering a groan of misery, for in spite of his brave effort, his run proved to be a miserable hobble, and then the agony he suffered in his side forced him to stop.
“Help! help!” he shouted hoarsely, but he felt that his cry sounded like a call to the animals amongst whom he stood, and as far as he could make out there was no one visible to heed his waving hat.
“I must fire my revolver,” he thought, and his hand went to his belt to unbutton the leather flap of the holster; but he did not withdraw the weapon, for he knew that the report would scare the poor beasts and send them galloping in all directions.