“Ah!” sighed Chris, “if he only would!”
Another arrow struck the rocks close to where Bourne and his friends were watchfully scanning the gulch between them and the old camp, and directly after a shot was fired, making every one start to look where the little grey puff of smoke arose, and Wilton was calmly reloading his rifle.
“I marked that fellow down,” he said coolly.
“Did you hit?” said the doctor.
“I think so. He has altered his position, and is lying flat.”
“Don’t fire! A friend!” came in a familiar voice from behind them, and the boys gave a cheer, which was answered by Griggs, who now appeared, coming at a trot along the gulch from the direction of the gully, and began to climb up on the doctor’s side.
“I did hope to be in time,” he said, as he reached Chris and lay down, breathing hard. “Not done much, I hope?”
“You are in time,” cried Chris, catching at the American’s hand, to have his own pressed firmly.
“We’ve been in great anxiety about you, Griggs,” cried the doctor, pressing his friend’s other hand.
“You’d have felt worse than that, sir, if you’d seen my wig,” said the American, with a chuckle. “They came so near catching me that my hair began to rise at the thought of being cut shorter than ever it was cut before, and made into an ornament. They nearly had me before I got to the first terrace. You know I—There’s a chap yonder going to send an arrow at us, Chris, lad. You’d better shoot.”