“There go our rifles, too,” added Grace, as a spirited fire sprang up at the point where the two girls believed their camp to be located.
“Oh, what shall we do?” cried Emma.
“Get into a safe place. We have no rifles and can do nothing to assist our friends.” Grasping Emma’s hand again, Grace ran back to the creek.
“Down!” she ordered as bullets began to rustle the leaves over their heads.
Both girls threw themselves down, and, with heads slightly raised, watched the flashes from the rifles. The outlaws were not riding this time, but were skulking, fighting Indian fashion, and Grace was now certain that the bandits that had been harassing the Overton outfit had returned for another attack.
The battle was being savagely waged on both sides, but who of her companions were taking part in it, Grace of course did not know. The first intimation she had that the fight was ended was when she saw four horsemen gallop down to the creek and head up the canyon.
“There they go,” announced Grace Harlowe in a relieved tone. “Hurry! Some one may have been hurt.”
Hand in hand the girls dragged their weary feet across the valley and up toward the camp.
“Do—do you think our people will shoo—oot at us?” stammered Emma.
“They may at that. I will signal them.” Grace fired three interval shots into the air, following it with the Overton hail, which was so weak that it barely carried to the camp.