Buck chuckled. Jones laughed aloud. Intense excitement reigned, mingled with a fierce exultation which Ted, as he realized afterward, fully shared.
The three white men and the negro fired again, and were raising their guns once more when Buck suddenly called a halt.
"Hold on," he said. "Looks like they've quit. And if they have, we'll quit, too."
All listened intently and looked cautiously forth. There were now no answering shots. It was evident that the slackers had either "quit" or, as Peters suggested, were "hatching some mischief."
While keeping a wary eye on the open woods behind them, the watchful listeners waited for some sign from the silenced "fort," and presently it came. A white handkerchief rose on the end of a stick and fluttered above the clump of palmettos.
"Hello, there!" shouted Buck. "Is that you, Jenkins? It's got to be Jenkins, or we won't trust you."
"It's me," they heard the voice of Jenkins, rather fainter than it had been during the previous parley. "It's all over, Hardy. You've got us. James and Thatcher have run—they're in the boats and gone by this time. Nobody here but me and Carter."
"Step out, then, and stack your guns."
"We're both hit, but I reckon we can do that much."
Jenkins came out of cover, limping, and stood his gun against the tree. Behind him came Carter, dragging his gun with one hand, his other arm hanging limp at his side.