“Good shot, Baderoon!” commented Nicky, admiringly. There was no better archer, or fighter, either, than their Papuan “black boy!” Nicky squinted across at Red Mountain, shimmering in the distance.
“Seven, or nearly eight miles, I should say,” he pronounced, judgmatically.
An arrow sprung from a rock about seventy yards down the slope as he spoke. It came nosing up to them and fell just in front.
Nicky sighted the spot with his Officer’s Model. “Here’s where I scintillate!” he laughed. “This old six-gun’s at her best at long range. Save your shells, Mr. Baldwin. I’ll get that bird!”
Another arrow soared overhead, coming from the west. Then the curator gave a low exclamation.
“Look, Nick! There goes another signal fire, far to the south. We’ll have all pygmy land around us in another day!”
The revolver barked at that instant, and a puff of dust flew out from the side of the rock behind which a hill man lay concealed.
“Scared him to death, anyhow!” joked Nicky, turning to look at the new fire.
“We’re surrounded, all right, except on the east, and we can’t hold off a whole army of them,” said the curator. “We’ve got two impossible things to do, as I see it—get in to Red Mountain and bring off some specimens and then make our escape from the country.”
“Fat chance!” grunted Nicky, cheerfully, firing his revolver again.