“All right, Scruff, we’ll let you go,” cried
Abel, and seizing the rough bar, he was in the act of raising it from the notch in which it rested, when bang—bang, two shots were fired just outside, and simultaneously the door shook violently, there was a peculiar rending, splintering sound in the rough boards, and Dallas’s heart gave a spasmodic leap, for he saw his cousin fall to the ground.
“Bel, lad! Hurt?” panted Dallas, stepping forward and dropping on one knee by his cousin’s side.
As he spoke there were two more shots, the bullets striking the door, and one passing clean through with a whirring, humming sound, to strike the wall on the other side, Dallas’s position in all probability saving his life, for the sound seemed to pass just over his head.
“Dal, old man! Hurt?” was Abel’s answer.
“No, not touched. Why don’t you answer? Were you hit?”
“No; I only ducked down, it seemed so near.”
“Save your shot,” said Dallas hoarsely. “When we fire it must be as a last resource.”
Abel nodded.