CHAPTER XXVII
IN THE ENEMY’S HANDS
It was not the bullet from Nicky’s pistol that did damage—it missed the moccasin by a good foot; but the sound, pounding through the still morning air, warned and wakened the hi-jackers.
Nicky did not dare risk a run past the snake which, in spite of the pistol shot, had not moved, except to lift its head angrily.
From the position by the boats Mr. Neale and Brownie heard the reverberating thud of the exploding powder. “He’s in trouble,” said Mr. Neale. “But he isn’t calling for help!” answered Brownie. They listened, but no further sound came. “Guess he got it,” said Brownie.
But then their ears were assailed by a triple succession of sharp explosions. This time it was the summons, without chance of mistake!
Breaking through the tangle, heedless of cuts and scratches, the sailor and the young collector of relics fought their way along the faint trail.
Nicky had aimed the pistol at the snake, even as he pressed the trigger in the call for aid; but his hand shook so that he made no effect on the reptile which, alarmed by the sound, slipped in a long, sinuous curve to the trunk of the tree. Nicky drew a long breath. But at the same instant that he heard the crash of bodies in the trail, he heard, behind him, feet thudding up from the waterside.
Turning, he lifted the pistol desperately in the faces of the two Ortiga brothers; but they were too close. As one knocked the weapon high in the air it exploded its fifth cartridge.
At the sound the men on the path beyond sight of Nicky gave a hail; at the same instant stout, powerful arms closed around Nicky, his opened lips were rudely smothered in a coarse hand and he felt himself, struggling, kicking, trying to bite, propelled toward the water.
“Fling him in and let’s get away!” cried Don Ortiga.