“What!” cried Pete in a whimpering voice; “touch me when I’m going for some water for Master Nat? They’d better! I’d smash ’em.”
Before he could be stopped he was bounding down the precipitous place, and my uncle turned anxiously to Cross.
“See any sign of them?” he said.
“Yes, sir, twice over; but they were too quick for me to get a shot. They’ve waded the river down yonder, and I got a glimpse of two of ’em climbing up.”
“Hah! Then he may escape them. Cross, one of us ought to follow and cover him.”
“Right, sir. I’m off,” cried the carpenter, and he hurried down our way to the river, just as we heard two sharp cracks from somewhere below.
“Make you feel sick, Nat?” said my uncle.
“No, I forgot it just then. I was thinking what a trump Pete is. Poor fellow! He has risked his life to get me that water.”
“Yes,” said my uncle through his teeth: “he’s a brave fellow, and he likes you, Nat.”
No more was said, and in a few minutes we heard the rustling of bushes and saw Bill Cross coming backwards with his gun at the ready, covering Pete, who was panting up with his bucket of water.