The two friends exchanged glances. A hard, determined expression rested upon each face, and their eyes told their resolve.
A fortune, hard-earned, lay there, belonging to them. Should they abandon it now, after all that they had endured? No!
Neither spoke a word, but looked to their pistols, renewed each cap, after seeing that the nipples were well primed. A miss-fire might be fatal, now.
Then they glided forward, not seeking to hide their movements. That, after the valley was reached, would be impossible. Nearly a mile of level sand, without a rock or shrub, must be passed over.
And yet they reached the water-course unmolested, unchallenged, unless the one feeble shout that came to their ears was such. They stood amazed. A terrible spectacle lay before their eyes.
Four men lay stretched upon the ground, only one of whom gave signs of life. He had dragged himself to the brush camp, and was now lying in its shelter.
The others were dead. Two of them lay upon their faces, the flint-head of an arrow protruding from each back. The other, close by, still clutched a bow; in the other hand was an arrow, that could not be fitted to the string before death overtook him.
"It is the madman—Bradford!" muttered Duplin.
"And that man is Paul Chicot!" added Wythe.
"Help, friends—for the love of God! help!" gasped the wounded man—the sole survivor of this tragedy.