Dyer's black eyes gleamed at him suspiciously, but the movement appeared wholly natural in view of the return to shore.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I didn't like your gang particularly, but that's nothing.”
“Why do you take such nervy chances to injure us?” queried Carpenter.
“Because there's something in it,” snapped the scaler. “Now about face; mosey!”
Like a flash Wallace wheeled and dropped into the river, swimming as fast as possible below water before his breath should give out. The swift current hurried him away. When at last he rose for air, the spit of Dyer's pistol caused him no uneasiness. A moment later he struck out boldly for shore.
What Dyer's ultimate plan might be, he could not guess. He had stated confidently that the jam would break “in an hour.” He might intend to start it with dynamite. Wallace dragged himself from the water and commenced breathlessly to run toward the boarding-house.
Dyer had already reached the shore. Wallace raised what was left of his voice in a despairing shout. The scaler mockingly waved his hat, then turned and ran swiftly and easily toward the shelter of the woods. At their border he paused again to bow in derision. Carpenter's cry brought men to the boarding-house door. From the shadows of the forest two vivid flashes cut the dusk. Dyer staggered, turned completely about, seemed partially to recover, and disappeared. An instant later, across the open space where the scaler had stood, with rifle a-trail, the Indian leaped in pursuit.
Chapter LV
“What is it?” “What's the matter?” “What's happened?” burst on Wallace in a volley.