As the voice of Sherwood rolled across the water in his demand for the surrender of Old Tumult and Town., the old scout burst into a roar of laughter that fairly shook the tree in which he was perched; then, in a tone peculiar to his powerful lungs, he requested the renegade to go to—that very warm region prepared for the wicked.
The enemy were above them, where they could avail themselves of the force of the current, and no sooner did they hear the old scout’s reply, than they began bearing down toward them at a rapid speed.
Our friends could see that the enemy were armed with rifles, but, as they did not fire upon them, they knew the distance was too great for the range of a common firearm, they—the enemy—being over two hundred yards above them.
“Death is a dead certainty with us now, Tumult,” said Town.
“Things look kinder scaly, lad, but I’m thinkin’ that ’ere essence o’ Satan has miscalculated our situation; or else they don’t know as how old Vibrator here can flip lead—that we’ve got rifles, too.”
“But the rain has made my rifle perfectly useless, Tumult, and my ammunition is soaking wet,” said Town., regretfully.
“Vibrator is all right. I didn’t furgit to keep her muzzle down, and her nipple dry. My powder is in a water-proof horn, and now I’ll see if I can’t check the speed o’ them ’ere critters afore they git in range for their bird-pickers.”
As he concluded, the old scout thrust his rifle through the foliage, took a deliberate aim, and fired. Had a torpedo exploded under the advancing canoe, it could not have caused greater consternation than did the shot fired by Old Tumult. It was wholly unexpected by the enemy. Sherwood had convinced the savages that there was nothing to fear from the whites—that their firearms were rendered useless by the rain. But, when one of their number fell dead—shot through the head with a half-ounce ball—all their savage anticipations of a pair of scalps fled, and turning their canoe shoreward, they fled equally as fast.
Old Tumult, with all the lion force of his lungs, gave vent to a triumphant, defiant yell, and a derisive, mocking laugh, that made the very blood of Dick Sherwood’s veins leap hot with rage, and burn with resentment.
“That’ll be apt to set the hounds o’ Satan red-hot,” said the old scout, as the enemy disappeared in the flooded timber; “and we’ve got to keep a close look-out, fur they’ll try every way that their cunnin’ brain kin invent to git our skulps.”