“But Toma may be wounded,” argued Sandy.
“I doubt it. If he is, it’s only slightly. Our best plan is to stay here and await developments.”
A few more shots from Toma’s automatic drove the half-breed from his inadequate barricade. The stocky figure suddenly lurched backward, one hand grasping his arm. His rifle dropped to the ground. For a split-second his face was distorted with pain. Then, turning swiftly, he retrieved his weapon and sped toward the slope, gaining its shelter without sustaining further injury. The boys watched him as he scrambled down through the trees and underbrush in the direction of the river.
“Come on, Dick!” Sandy shouted excitedly. “We’ll go over and see Toma. That’s what I call marksmanship!”
“You’re taking a chance if you do. In this storm Toma wouldn’t be able to tell whether it was you or the half-breed. Good way to commit suicide.”
“Guess I won’t take a chance,” grinned Sandy. “But how are we going to join him?”
“I think we’d better slip along the slope for a few hundred yards, then circle back to the trail where the ponies are,” was Dick’s suggestion.
The two friends proceeded to put this plan into execution. In high spirits again, now that they knew that the guide was safe, they hurried along, and in less than twenty minutes were back at the same place they had left but a short time before. They had scarcely taken up their former position beside the ponies, when a sharp crackling in the underbrush close at hand, told them that Toma had returned. He sauntered up as if nothing had happened, his face as inscrutable and expressionless as ever.
Secretly, Sandy poked Dick in the ribs. Then he turned upon the newcomer scowling.
“Where have you been all this time?” he demanded hotly. “Did it take you nearly an hour to walk over to the river? We’ve been sitting here so long that we’re nearly frozen.”