The rush was broken. Whoever was in the grass, feared to advance farther in the face of that fire. The long grass ceased to wave, indicating the attackers had come to a halt. But they did not retreat. The menace was still there.
“Anybody hit?” Farnum called out.
“Not me,” said Art.
“Nor me,” answered Frank.
“Thank our lucky stars for that,” answered Farnum.
They all lay in a semi-circle, facing different directions, but close enough to each other to make communication in ordinary tones possible. Relieved to discover that all were untouched, despite the bullets that had rained on the camp, Farnum next inquired anxiously after Mr. Hampton, and Bob answered he had been only stunned.
“I reckon these fellows are Lupo and his gang,” Farnum remarked. “But he must have had more men than we expected, or he wouldn’t be attacking us like this.”
“What’ll we do?” growled Art. “Looks like they got us penned in.”
“Oh, but we stopped their rush,” protested Frank.
“Yes,” said Art, “but they ain’t beatin’ it as I can see. An’ when we want to up an’ leave camp, what’s goin’ to happen?”