Now we were almost under the party of Indians. As I dodged into the cabin where Tom was already curled up, I saw them stand poised with stones, some grasping them above their heads with both hands. Then they hurled them down in a regular hail. The water splashed in white foam all around the boat and the spray dashed in all directions.
One large round stone struck the bow splintering a board. Several more fell crash on the deck. Two grazed Jim as he dodged, yet stuck valiantly at his post, holding the boat to the current. He was splashed from head to foot with the flying spray. Fortunately none of the missiles struck the steering oar.
Finally a shell,—well it seemed like it, but I mean a stone,—came down fair on the roof of the cabin, splintering through and falling on Tom's leg. This smoked us out, and we crawled out on deck.
"Give those fellows a shot," yelled Jim, "make 'em dance, Jo."
I seized my rifle from the side of the cabin and leveled it back up the canyon at the group of Indians, who had given us such a warm reception.
It was laughable to see the effect upon them as I aimed. All that could dropped flat to the ledge, making themselves extremely small. Some clambered winding up the rough face of the rock.
I picked one of the climbing Indians and fired, the roar of the concussion in the narrow canyon was startling. It rolled back and forth like the thunder of artillery.
At my third shot an Indian slipped, it was one below the fellow I was aiming at, caught frantically at the face of the rock, missed the narrow ledge and shot down toward the river, whipped twice over in his fall, and with a great splash, disappeared into the muddy, whirling river.
I shall never forget the dark velocity with which that Indian fell. It was something appalling and it made me shrink inwardly, even if the fellow was our enemy.
"Good shot, boy," yelled Jim.