“Yes, why—”
“That’s it,” said Art, in a tone of conviction. Mr. Farnum turned towards him.
“You mean?”
“Jack guessed it. Thorwaldsson’s being attacked.”
Jack nodded.
“That’s what I meant, Dad.”
“You’re right, Jack,” said his father. “Come on. It can’t be anything else. Nobody but Thorwaldsson is in this wilderness. We must help him. Stick close together.”
And scrambling out of their shallow pit, Mr. Hampton started on the dead run towards the direction of the shooting, with the others at his heels.
The ground was bare of verdure, and great rocks of the copper ore were scattered around. On this account their view was restricted, but the sound of the rifle fire grew momentarily louder, apprising them that they were nearing the scene of conflict. Suddenly Bob, who was in the lead, having out-distanced the others several yards, rounded a big rock and found himself on a bank above a narrow strip of beach.
Below lay a number of forms, as of men dead or wounded. Two canoes were drawn up on the beach, and behind one of these, using it as a bulwark, crouched a man, rifle to shoulder. Farther down the beach were three other canoes grounded, and beside them several forms of wounded men, and five or six men, crouching, firing at the lone defender of the attacked position, creeping up on him.