A yell of agony rang through the gorge. Then down over the cliff tumbled an Indian almost at the Celt’s feet.
The bullet had pierced his skull and his final account was settled.
“Good shot, Barney!” cried Frank, “that only leaves five for us to tackle.”
Then quick as a flash the young inventor threw his rifle to his shoulder.
Crack!
Another yell, a death cry went up on the air of the defile.
“Bejabers, that’s only four av the divils left,” chuckled Barney. “It’s only two to wan, Misther Frank.”
“You’re right, Barney!” cried Frank, with enthusiasm, “but the odds are yet too great.”
The outlook now was certainly encouraging for the rescue of the prisoners.
But the two rescuers knew better than to essay an open attack.