Duncan entered the house and quickly returned bearing a bow and a sheaf of arrows in a leathern quiver. His face wore a smile of satisfaction, but as he rejoined us and started the car again I said to him:
“Do you imagine we can shoot better with that outfit than with our revolvers?”
“Yes; one shot will be worth a volley from a regiment,” he returned.
I own I was puzzled, but he graciously allowed me to run the car, although at a moderate speed, so that I had little chance to observe his immediate actions. I heard him lift the trap in the door, though, and then, after a period of silence, he touched my arm and told me to stop.
We could now observe with the naked eye the group of Indians on the river bank.
“Who can make the best shot with this contrivance?” asked Moit.
I turned around and understood his plan at once. To one of the arrows he had firmly tied the slender glass bottle, and I could see that it had again been filed with the dreadful explosive.
“I shoot,” said Nux, nodding his head gravely.
Both of the blacks shot splendidly with the bow, I remembered, for it was their native weapon. But Nux was the better marksman of the two.
Duncan handed the arrow and the bow to him and opened a side window.