“Artena’s been blown to atoms,” he said. “She stood there just a second before the noise.”
Before Jack could reply, another shell dropped into the cavern, and the savages shrunk toward the corridors.
“We must leave this hole,” said Jack. “Blue-coats’ big balls got sharp eyes. They see Modoc here.”
The Indians were not averse to leaving.
Theresa, the scout’s daughter, lay across her father’s body, stunned by the explosion, and Bob snatched her away as he turned to his clansmen again.
“We must go, and that quickly,” he said, in hurried accents. “Charley, pick up yon white dog—quick!”
The Indian addressed—Boston Charley—sprung forward, and lifted the limp form of Evan Harris from the spot to which he had been hurled by the bursting of the shell.
“No use, he’s dead,” he said, glancing from the bloody face to Bob.
“Dead! No, he shan’t be dead!” cried the mad chief. “I’ve got an old score to wipe out with him yet. Dead? no! see, he gasps. Evan Harris, I’m going to have the satisfaction of killing you before I die.”
Sure enough, the young ranger gasped, and opened his eyes convulsively.