“Taken between two fires, Master Bart,” said Joses, coolly; “and if we don’t look out they’ll be up to the chimney before we can get there, and then—”
“We must sell our lives as dearly as we can, Joses,” cried Bart.
“Good, lad—good, lad!” replied Joses, taking deadly aim at one of the Indians up the river, and firing; “but my life ain’t for sale. I want it for some time to come.”
“That’s right; keep up the retreat. Well done, Beaver!”
This was an account of the action of the chief, who, calling upon three of his men to follow him, dashed down stream towards the chimney, regardless of risk, so as to hold the rear enemies in check, while Bart, Joses, and the other three Indians did the same by the party up stream, who, however, were rapidly approaching now.
“I want to know how those beggars managed to get down into the canyon behind us,” growled Joses, as he kept on steadily firing whenever he had a chance. “They must have gone down somewhere many miles away. I say, you mustn’t lose a chance, my lad. Now then; back behind those rocks. Let’s run together.”
Crack—crack—crack! went the Indians’ rifles, and as the echoes ran down the canyon, they yelled fiercely and pressed on, the Beaver’s men yelling back a defiance, and giving them shot for shot, one of which took deadly effect.
There was a fierce yelling from down below as the savages pressed upwards, and the perils of the whole party were rapidly increasing.
“Didn’t touch you, did they, Master Bart?” cried Joses from his hiding-place.
“No.”