CHAPTER XXXV.
RETRIBUTION.
Our first thought was that we had blundered into an ambuscade and that the bluffs to right and left of us swarmed with redskins. Our little column stopped short, confused and panic-stricken, and for a brief instant we stood huddled in the narrow valley like sheep. Our muskets were lifted, but no foes were insight; we expected a withering fusillade to be poured into our ranks.
“They’ve got us, boys!” cried Tom Arnold, who was staring in all directions while he held his wounded arm.
But the silence remained unbroken—and I began to hope that our alarm was groundless—at least, so far as an ambuscade was concerned. Just where the shot had been fired from I could not tell, for the wind had quickly drifted the smoke away; but as I watched alertly I detected a slight movement in the evergreen-clad face of the hill on the left, at a point some distance ahead, and about twenty feet from the ground.
“There is only one redskin,” was my instant reflection, “and he is loading for another shot.”
My gun was at mid-shoulder, and I did not hesitate a second. Taking swift aim at the spot, I pulled the trigger. The loud report was followed by a screech; then the bushes parted, and an Indian pitched out headforemost, landing with a thud in the soft snow.
“Good shot!” cried Arnold. “One red devil the less! But what can the others be about?”
“It’s doubtful if there are any more,” said I.