The white kept up his shouting, from which it was easy to guess that he was determined that Trim and all of his companions should be slaughtered. “Give me room there,” he said, quietly, to one of the guards.
The guard stepped back and Trim took his place at the mouth of the cave.
The mist rising from the waterfall floated before him, and it was often so dense that he could not see through it.
He waited until the light breeze that was blowing cleared away the cloud of spray for a moment, and then drew upon the white leader of the Narugas.
At that moment the leader was standing perhaps two hundred feet away looking in the direction of the falls. He was trying to locate the enemy.
“This is where we are, boss!” shouted Trim, as he pulled the trigger.
The leader apparently caught sight of Trim just as the revolver spoke, for he leaped aside and made for a tree.
He was too late. The pistol ball sped faster than he could, and it struck him as Trim had intended, in the right arm.
“He won’t shoot again to-day,” thought Trim, “unless he’s left-handed.”
The shot caused a panic among the savages who had been driven on to the attack by their leader. Trim could see them turning about and getting down hill as fast as they could on their hands and knees. Not one of them ventured to rise.