As he yelled these words, Maxwell discharged his rifle at a prominent Indian, who suddenly paused in his onward career, tottered for a moment, then fell heavily forward upon his face. And along the line of smoke-begrimed wagons there was another flash, like those which had preceded it, with a like deadly effect.
But the one volley was all that was needed, for then the savages appeared to melt away and disappear from view. This had evidently been no concerted assault, but the red-skins had rushed forward, alarmed by the tumult below, no doubt fearing their intended prey were attempting to escape by way of the river.
When the temporary confusion had in a measure subsided, the two men listened anxiously for some sound from below, to tell them of the probable fate of their messenger, but all was still. The event had evidently decided, in one way or another, during the brief assault.
And they naturally dreaded the worst. The first yells told them that Buenos Ayres had been discovered, and had been engaged in a death-struggle with the enemy. He could scarcely have escaped.
“Now we are indeed lost,” bitterly uttered Calhoun, to the old guide.
“It looks dub’ous—durned dub’ous, I must say. But then mebbe ’tain’t so bad as it looks. We may fool ’em yit. It’s my turn, now,” added Tom, with a sudden increase of confidence.
“What? you would not be foolish enough to attempt that? They will be watching the river so close after this that a fish could scarcely pass their lines. It would be suicide, man!”
“Jest so; ef I tried it—which I don’t ’tend doin’. No sir, I ain’t sech a fool—yit!”
“Then what do you intend doing?”
“Walkin’ out thar an’ j’inin’ them imps,” coolly returned Maxwell.