The Peril Finders

by George Manville Fenn

The time occupied in this was very short, but it was long enough for two more arrows to fall very near him, one nearly upright to cut its way with a sharp whizz amongst the grass and bury its head in the soft earth at an angle of forty-five degrees.

Then another idea struck Chris—tardily, for he felt that he should have thought of it at first.

Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew forth a little chain, at the end of which was a metal whistle, and the alarm note he blew sounded piercing and shrill.

He did not stop there, but did what he felt was best. Hobbling to the side of his mustang and talking caressingly to it the while, he took hold of the thick forelock and began to lead it towards where he hoped to find safety.

The docile little animal made no opposition to being led from the pleasant pasture, but started and shivered as there came the sharp whizz of another arrow—too painful a memory to his ear—making the poor beast limp along a little faster in obedience to his master’s effort to get him away.

Then another arrow came terribly near them, and Chris whistled again, his spirits rising though, for the rest of the animals, taking in the fact of one of them being led away from either corn or water, began to neigh and squeal as they closed in after their leader, so that if there proved to be time enough before the arrows took effect, Chris felt, as he blew a long and shrill note again, that he would be able to guide the herd into safety.

“Why are they not on the lookout?” groaned the boy, for his progress was painfully slow; “they ought to see that something is wrong.” But he was ignorant of the fact that nothing was visible from the lookout but himself and the animals trotting about playfully as they kept pretty close to the wounded mustang.

An arrow again, and another, each wonderfully near, but no harm was done. Then another which fell with a dull thud, and was followed by a wild scream which startled the herd into disorder, sending the mules helter-skelter, kicking and plunging, all but one, which galloped away by itself, turning its head the while to bite at an arrow which had buried itself in its back.

That strange scream had done what Chris’s whistle failed in, drawn attention to something being wrong, while directly after a little puff of smoke darted from the upper terrace, followed by its report and the reverberation of echoes. Then another shot, and another, and no more arrows fell, though Chris in his slow progress suffered as much agony as if they had still been dropping all around.

But now the doctor came running out, followed by Wilton, and under the cover of a few more shots the little herd was driven in, slowly enough, for the wounded mule progressed more and more slowly till it hung back close alongside of Chris’s mustang, showing that it was badly hurt.