“There’s another,” he whispered, placing the keg at Tom’s feet, and springing back towards the magazine. Again he disappeared, and, as before, re-issued from the hole with the second keg on his shoulder. Suddenly a phantom seemed to glide from the bushes, and fell him to the earth. He dropped without even a cry, and so swift was the act that his friends had not time to move a finger to prevent it. Tom, however, discharged both barrels of his gun at the spot where the phantom seemed to disappear, and Tolly Trevor discharged a horse pistol in the same direction. Instantly a rattling volley was fired from the woods, and balls whistled all round the defenders of the hut.
Most men in the circumstances would have sought shelter, but Tom Brixton’s spirit was of that utterly reckless character that refuses to count the cost before action. Betty’s father lay helpless on the ground in the power of his enemies! That was enough for Tom. He leaped across the bridge, seized the fallen man, threw him on his shoulder, and had almost regained the bridge, when three painted Indians uttered a hideous war-whoop and sprang after him.
Fortunately, having just emptied their guns, they could not prevent the fugitive from crossing the bridge, but they reached it before there was time to draw in the plank, and were about to follow, when Tolly Trevor planted himself in front of them with a double-barrelled horse-pistol in each band.
“We don’t want you here, you—red-faced—baboons!” he cried, pausing between each of the last three words to discharge a shot and emphasising the last word with one of the pistols, which he hurled with such precision that it took full effect on the bridge of the nearest red man’s nose. All three fell, but rose again with a united screech and fled back to the bushes.
A few moments more and the bridge was drawn back, and Paul Bevan was borne into the hut, amid a scattering fire from the assailants, which, however, did no damage.
To the surprise and consternation of Tolly, who entered first, Betty was found sitting on a chair with blood trickling from her left arm. A ball entering through the window had grazed her, and she sank down, partly from the shock, coupled with alarm. She recovered, however, on seeing her father carried in, sprang up, and ran to him.
“Only stunned, Betty,” said Tom; “will be all right soon, but we must rouse him, for the scoundrels will be upon us in a minute. What—what’s this—wounded?”
“Only a scratch. Don’t mind me. Father! dear father—rouse up! They will be here—oh! rouse up, dear father!”
But Betty shook him in vain.
“Out o’ the way, I know how to stir him up,” said Tolly, coming forward with a pail of water and sending the contents violently into his friend’s face—thus drenching him from head to foot.