“Great Scott!” cried Don, his voice vibrating with excitement. “That must be a hot scrap—can you make anything out, Dave?”
The historian, who had a field-glass raised to his eyes, silently handed over the instrument, while Sam, peering fixedly, exclaimed: “Well—that’s bringing their troubles pretty close to the United States border; eh, fellows!”
The New Orleans boy found that a great deal could be made out by means of the binocular. A hot fight was on between two forces of considerable size. Through the circle of pale greenish light he could see riders dashing frantically about, and soldiers unhorsed running for cover. Altogether, the scene was one of the greatest noise, violence and confusion.
“Who in thunder ever expected us to run across anything like that?” he breathed.
“Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” remarked Sam, calmly. “Let’s have a look, Don.”
Then while he turned the glass on the combatants, the three remained silent for a considerable time as they watched with the greatest interest the struggle on the opposite shore.
“By George!” blurted out Sam, suddenly; he let his hands drop and swung around to face his companions. “As I live they’re going to——”
“What?” fairly shouted Don.
“Wait a second!” Sam was once more studying the situation through the glass. “Yes, sir!—some of those soldiers are actually going to cross the river.”
Don Stratton in his eagerness, forgetting politeness, seized the instrument from the other’s extended hand. In another instant he saw the indistinct figures in the distance become quite strong and clear. One side, evidently disastrously defeated and now in full flight, had already reached the shelving banks of the river, where in a panic-stricken effort to escape from their hotly pursuing foes they were boldly riding out into the stream.