“Good-night.”
Bush turned over, and it was not long before his deep breathing indicated that he was fast asleep. Harry, on the contrary, was wakeful. He had a nervous, restless feeling, as if something were going to happen, though his forebodings were indefinite, and took no decided shape.
At length he fell into a light slumber. How long it lasted he could not tell. But all at once he awoke, to find a man bending over Bush with a knife in his hand. He uttered a cry of horror, and sprung to his feet, but too late! The knife descended, penetrating the breast of the ill-fated miner, who awoke with a groan.
“Give me the nugget quick, boy, or I’ll serve you the same way,” said the murderer, turning to Harry.
By the uncertain light Harry recognized Henderson.
“Wretch!” he exclaimed, in a tone of horror, “what have you done?”
“There’s no time for talking,” said Henderson, fiercely; “give me the nugget, or (here he interpolated an oath) I’ll send you after Bush.”
He raised his knife, but Harry was too quick for him. Fearing danger in some form, he had placed Bush’s revolver in his pocket when he lay down. He drew it out suddenly, and, presenting it, fired. The charge took effect in Henderson’s right shoulder. With an oath he dropped the knife, and, staggering out of the tent, fell just outside.
“Well done, my lad!” said Bush, feebly.
“Are you much hurt, Bush?” asked Harry, bending over the sufferer, and speaking anxiously.