“Dean—Gordon! Wake up, lads. A light—a light!”
A thrill of joy shot through me as I recognised Gunson’s voice, although it was changed by excitement, and panting, just as it sounded to me after his encounter with the big settler; while before I could speak there came an answer to his appeal in the shrill tones of the Chinaman.
“Wantee lightee? Yes.”
Then there was a blaze, and directly after I saw the little fellow bearing a great pine branch which he had dragged out of the fire.
“What is it?” I said, eagerly.
“I don’t know yet, boy. One of the Indians, I think. He struck me with a club, but fortunately it was only on the shoulder, and when I leaped up and struck out he went down. I’ve got him here. Don’t come till we can see. He may sting.”
The light flashed in under the pine boughs then, and I could see Gunson’s back as he knelt down, evidently holding his enemy there by the throat.
“Why, hang it!” he cried, drawing back sharply; “it’s Dean.”
“Dean!” I cried. “There must be some one else.”
“No; only him. He was striking about with—yes, here it is,” he continued, picking up a stout piece of pine, one of the branches that had been in the fire till the small twigs were burned off, leaving it as a strong cudgel about two feet long. “He struck me with this, and he was dashing it about among the branches.”