Tom seemed to experience the pleasure that fills the heart of an exiled chief when he finds himself once more with his men.
The Indians were lightly attired. Not one of the party possessed a gun, but each of them carried a weapon of death more horrible than the singing bullet.
They came on until they were almost directly in front of the watcher. Their faces were plainly visible in the moonlight. As Tom Terror looked he counted them.
“Is it possible that they’ve been reduced to six? By the jumpin’ jingo! somebody’s been here since I’ve been gone! What would they say war I to step out an’ say—‘Wal, boys, I’m back?’ Gosh all varmints! how they’d jump! And mebbe I’d get the string before they’d recognised their old cap’n!”
At that moment the Indians started, and looked into each other’s faces.
Tom looked toward the north.
“I hear it, too,” he said. “By Jove! the boys ar’ gittin’ the strings ready.”
The Indians had drawn a dark cord from their breasts. As it swung loose a little ball dangled from one end.
Down the canyon came the galloping of two horses.