“Who’s there? That you Mac?”
Murphy believed one of “Black George’s” party had returned. Probably, from the name he employed, he considered it was MacFinney, the engineer. Jack thought quickly.
“Down. Crouch down, and scatter,” he whispered.
Frank and Bob dropped and disappeared to right and left respectively in the low brush. Murphy called again, a note of anxiety in his voice:
“Who’s there? Answer or I’ll fire.”
Jack’s reply was a shot from his revolver, purposely aimed high. He had no desire to injure Murphy. Then he ran to one side, fired again, and a third time and then taking shelter behind a rock awaited developments. Bob and Frank who, it had been agreed beforehand, should go not more than twenty paces away in order that they all might keep in touch with each other in case it was necessary to come together again for protection or make a dash back to the boat, also opened fire.
Murphy fired only once, after Jack’s first shot. The bullet pinged against the canyon wall. Then he turned and, although the boys could not see him, they could hear him dashing back, and surmised he was going to rejoin his men.
Jack decided a little noise now would not come amiss and would help to increase the alarm and mystification of Murphy’s party as well as apprise their own men in the stockade that friends were at hand. He began to yell “Attaboy, give it to ’em.” Bob and Frank, closer at hand than he thought, joined in vociferously. They made a praiseworthy din that would have done credit to a dozen men at least.
In the midst of it, answering cheers came back from the stockade and then over the palings leaped
Ensign Warwick and Inspector Burton with their men. The boys could not see, but they could hear. Shots and cheers rang out, and the boys not to be outdone redoubled their former efforts, at the same time keeping up a brisk revolver fire at the sky.