“Just ordinary ruffians, I suppose,” returned Nick carelessly. “They may be a gang from the hills, for anything I know. Look out! Here comes a spear!”
It was immediately apparent that, although there were no guns in the ranks of the dusky enemy, they could hurl spears with precision and viciousness.
Four or five of these weapons—exceedingly dangerous when in skillful hands—came hurtling among the trees.
The aim was good, too, for Chick had only just got behind a deodar when two spears came singing along and stuck in the trunk of the tree just where his head had been a moment before.
Patsy had a narrower escape than Chick, for one of the spears caught the sleeve of his white linen coat and fastened it to the tree.
“Gee! There goes a new coat sleeve!” exclaimed Patsy, with comic anger. “They’ve taken out a three-cornered bit just above the elbow, and I’ll have to go in rags till I get to a city where I can buy another coat. Holy mackerel! I’m always ‘it’ when there’s bad luck going about.”
Meanwhile, Chick found himself hard pressed. He could not get out from behind his tree without offering himself as a target for a spear, and he could not stay where he was indefinitely.
He had only six more shots left in the magazine of his rifle, and no time to reload.
“I’ll give them all I’ve got,” he muttered. “If that doesn’t clear the way, I’ll have to go out there and get into a rough-and-tumble scrap, taking chances.”
He fired a couple of shots into the ranks of the oncoming Hindus, hoping to hit some of them, but without knowing exactly where his bullets would go. It was impossible to take steady aim under the circumstances, and he did not try.