“Frank, Jack, they’re rushing me. Look out for yourselves.”
There was a crashing in the brush ahead.
“Down, Jack, some of them coming.”
The two flung themselves prone behind a spruce whose low branches swept the ground. The sounds were off to their left. A moment later the forms of four men, hurrying towards the channel whence they had just come, could be seen eight or ten yards away.
Jack’s face was pale, his lips set. Frank was trembling with excitement and fear—not for himself, if the truth must be told, for the plucky lad was not thinking of himself, but for his chum, who was holding off the main attack alone.
“Steady, Frank,” whispered Jack. “Bob’s life depends on us. This is no time for false compunctions. You’ll have to shoot to kill.”
“All right, Jack.”
Then the two rifles spoke as one, and two of the runners stumbled, flung out their arms to save themselves, and pitched forward. The others spun about towards the direction whence the boys had fired, but a second time Frank and Jack fired, and they, too, fell.
“No time to see how badly they were hit,” said Jack. “Come on. Old Bob’s still alive and shooting.”
Forward they dashed once more, not neglecting, however, to keep wary watch as they ran. No more of the enemy were seen, however. There was a sudden uproar ahead, the shots ceased. Cries of astonishment, stupefaction, even a note of fear, went up from several throats. Above all was a bull-like roar that they readily identified as coming from Bob’s throat.