ATTACKED BY CANNIBALS.
In his descent the savage struck Harvey, who was crawling from under the
shelter, and the lad was sent sprawling to the other side of the little
enclosure.
“Hold him! Keep him down!” called the señor to Hope-Jones, who with
great presence of mind had fallen upon the struggling Majerona. But
there was little use for the Peruvian to urge, or the Englishman to use
his strength, for the Indian was mortally wounded; his struggles were
death throes, not efforts to give combat, and in a few seconds he rolled
over, dead. The rifle ball had pierced his brain. Two shots had rung out
from the opening while this was going on, and howls and cries answered
them. Ferguson was busily pumping lead into others of the cannibals, and
when his companions hurried to his side, they saw one man stretched out
not fifty feet from the enclosure, and another, evidently wounded, was
being assisted away in the direction of the encampment by a half dozen
fellow-tribesmen.
“Now we are in for it!” said Señor Cisneros. “But first, my friend,” he
said warmly, offering his hand to Ferguson, “I want to tell you that you
have saved our lives. Another minute and all those reptiles would have
been in here, and we should have been massacred. How did you happen to
see him?” pointing to the dead savage, lying against the brush heap—“and
how did you happen to act so promptly?”
Ferguson’s cheeks were red and his eyes were snapping in a manner they
had, when he was excited. He was also breathing quickly.
“It was only good fortune; that’s all,” he replied. “I grew tired
standing stock still while you were loafing in the shade, and to amuse
myself I had lifted my rifle to my shoulder and was taking aim around at
different objects. I suppose that while doing this I neglected to watch
the opening as closely as I should, and one of the Indians sneaked up in
the grass, like that fellow did this morning. But it happened that when
he put his head over the rock, I was aiming at a spot near where his
black hair appeared; so all I had to do was to pull the trigger.”
They all congratulated him—all, including Harvey, who had picked himself
up and was rubbing his head where a lump the size of a hickory nut
testified to his having struck against a stone after being given
momentum by the wounded savage; then they hastened to make such
preparations as were necessary before the attack which they now knew
must come.
“First, let’s get rid of this body,” said the captain, and taking down
some of the brush at the rear, they dragged the corpse out and toward
the river. Returning, they made everything snug again, and the captain
disposed of the forces for the fray.
“My plan of reserving the fire for a volley has been spoiled,” he said,
“so the next best thing will have to be done. Ferguson, you’re a
splendid shot. Do you think that with a boost you can get up on the
rock, in about the place where your friend, the Majerona, was lying?”
“Yes, I guess so,” replied the American, surveying the steep boulder.
“Then it would be well for you to do so and commence picking them off
with your rifle as soon as they come in sight. We have only two openings
down here that command their approach, and there won’t be an opportunity
for us all. We must kill and wound as many as possible before they get
near. That’s our only hope.”
“What am I going to do?” asked Harvey. “There are only two openings, and
I suppose you and Mr. Hope-Jones will want to cover those.”
“You can alternate with me, my boy. My rifle, unfortunately, is a
muzzle-loader, and while I am ramming in a charge you can step to the
peep-hole and use your shot-gun. Of course,” he continued, “the
shot-guns will not carry as far as the rifles and will not be
serviceable as soon, but we have plenty of ammunition, and I think it
would be wise to blaze away with all pieces as often as possible during
the first five minutes and make plenty of noise.” Then turning to
Ferguson again he said:—
“Don’t stay up there a second after it seems dangerous. You can slide
down, can you not, without assistance?”
“Of course.”
“How many cartridges does your rifle carry in the chamber?”
“Eight.”
“Then don’t take any more with you. They will be sufficient until the
arrows commence to fly, and then I want you with us here. That reminds
me, I told Hope-Jones and Harvey to blaze away, regardless of aim, with
their shot-guns for a time, but I suppose you understand the same does
not apply to the rifles. We must make every shot count.”
“Never fear for that. Will you give me a boost now, sir? They will be
coming any minute.”
“Yes. Help me, Hope-Jones. Steady me a bit,” and the Peruvian stood
upright against the rock and told the Englishman to press against his
back. “Leave your rifle, Ferguson, and we will pass it up to you.”
By stepping on a stone the American obtained a foothold on the señor’s
shoulders, then reaching up, he caught a ledge of rock and bringing into
practice an exercise he had learned on the horizontal bars, he drew
himself with ease to the ledge, from which he scrambled to the surface.
“Quick!” he exclaimed, the moment he looked around. “Pass me my rifle.
They are coming! I can see them down the river! Gracious, what a band of
them!”
At the captain’s direction, Harvey jumped on his shoulders as Ferguson
had done and passed the repeating rifle to his companion, then the
Peruvian and the Englishman took positions at the peep-holes, while the
lad stood back, waiting.
If the truth be told his heart was beating like it had on days after a
boat race, and he felt the blood surging to his temples. There was an
instant after Ferguson said that the Indians were coming that he felt
dizzy. But it passed almost as soon as it had come, and he bit his lip
until it bled, for he was angry that any alarm should have seized him.
The moment this feeling of anger came, he was surprised to note that his
heart commenced to beat normally, that the fever left his cheeks, and
that he became self-possessed. And from that moment he became as cool
and collected as any one in the little fort.
“How far are they off?” called out Señor Cisneros.
“A half mile, sir,” answered the voice from above.
“Do you think there are more than forty?”
“I dare say not; but they seemed to number two or three hundred when
they first came in sight.”
“I counted forty when I reconnoitred their camp last night, and they
must have all been within the vicinity of the fire, for there would have
been no object in their scattering at that hour. Therefore, with two
dead and one wounded we have thirty-seven to fight. How are they coming?
In a body?”
“Yes; close together; all in a bunch.”
“So much the better.”
This conversation had been carried on in loud tones, that Ferguson might
hear and be heard, for he was lying on the far side of the boulder. It
seemed strange to speak in this manner after the enforced whispers that
had been the rule for twenty-four hours.
“Now I can see them,” said the captain, and he rested his rifle on the
ledge. A sharp report sounded above.
“Did you bring another down?”
“No,” called back Ferguson. “I missed.”
“You’re honest, that’s sure. Most persons would have said they didn’t
know, but thought so. Better reserve your fire a few minutes.”
The American did as he was advised, but before any of them below had an
opportunity to take effective aim, his rifle spoke again and the captain
called: “How now?”
“I saw a copper-colored rascal whirl ‘round and ‘round and then drop.”
“Bravo! That makes thirty-six!”
A minute later the Peruvian’s weapon sounded, and without waiting to
notice the result, he darted back and commenced to reload, saying:—
“Now blaze away, my lad!” and Harvey rushed to the opening. Hope-Jones
in the meantime had discharged one barrel, then another, of his shot-gun
and had thrown back the breech to press in fresh shells, while the sharp
report of Ferguson’s rifle came from above, once, twice, thrice, and the
American was heard to call above the din:—
“They’re getting it! You struck one, Cisneros, and I have fetched two
more.”
“Thirty-three,” said the Peruvian, and he crowded Harvey one side as the
boy was loading his double-barrelled gun, and taking aim once more, he
sent another bullet into the dark throng that was rapidly approaching,
for the Indians were running.
After that there was no opportunity to keep count. Ferguson came sliding
down from his altitudinous perch, having exhausted all the cartridges in
his rifle; and ejecting the worthless shells, he loaded again, then
stood behind Hope-Jones, to alternate with him at the peep-hole, and
after the Englishman had fired both barrels point-blank, the American
jumped to the opening and pumped eight shots in the direction of the
enemy, as fast as the mechanism of the modern arm would work.
Harvey, the while, had been loading with feverish haste, running toward
his peep-hole the moment it was left by the Peruvian and discharging his
weapon. He took aim, and after the third discharge, he saw an Indian
fall, evidently from shot he had sent speeding, for the man was somewhat
detached from the others and the boy had tried to bring him down. The
little enclosure became filled with smoke, and their faces and arms were
streaked with dirt. All were more or less powder-burned, but of this
they did not know till afterwards.
“What now?” suddenly said the captain, for the Majeronas had halted.
“They are bending their bows! Watch out, all! Down on your faces!”
The warning was not a second too soon. Whistling like a wind that
scurries around the gable of a house in winter, a flight of arrows
poured into and over the little fort, and others could be heard striking
against the front boulder. Several of the darts came through the
openings and rattled against the stones, and one transfixed Ferguson’s
knapsack, which was in a corner.
“Now, at them once more!”
And the men and boy jumped to their places as before.
The target was not nearly so good. The Indians had separated and were
spreading out. They could be seen running in different directions,
evidently carrying out some command of their chief, and a few minutes
later a dozen commenced climbing trees, keeping their bodies on the side
opposite the fort.
“This is different,” exclaimed the señor. “Pick off all you can while
you have the opportunity, for we shall soon be compelled to seek
shelter.”
The guns were kept busy until the barrels were so hot that they burned
the hands, but only one Majerona fell—a bold fellow who had run forward
of the others, and whom it was Harvey’s lot to make bite the dust, at
which the captain patted the boy on the shoulder and said:—
“I wish I had a lad like you. If God spares me, I am going to make it my
business to tell Señor Dartmoor what a son he has.”
A little later he called, “Under cover, all of you!” and they darted
beneath the thick mass of boughs that he had placed against the side of
the boulder. Then they knew with what wisdom he had constructed this
protection, for arrows commenced to rain into the enclosure from all
sides, some whistling low over the boulders, others dropping as if from
the skies. They came with such force that those which fell without stood
upright in the ground, and although others penetrated the protecting
branches, they lost their force and none of the defenders of the fort
was harmed. However, as a further protection, they lay flat on their
faces. This lasted for full five minutes; then there was a lull, and
Señor Cisneros, creeping to an opening, said:—
“They are forming again. No, don’t fire,” and he restrained Hope-Jones.
“I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
“If we withhold our fire, they will think we are all dead or so
grievously wounded as not to be able to resist. You see, they don’t know
anything about our roof. The fellow who got a view inside was placed in
a position where he could not relate the result of his observations.
Yes, they are forming in a body for a rush. Now wait, everybody, until I
give the word!”
He darted under the boughs to the furthermost corner and at once
reappeared with the gourd which, earlier in the afternoon, he had
fashioned into a bomb.
“Who has a match?”
Harvey gave him some.
[Illustration: “Angry copper-colored faces showed at the opening.”]
“Here, Hope-Jones, take my rifle! You can use it and your shot-gun as
well, for I shall be busy with this thing. Harvey, don’t try to fire,
but have your gun handy. When I give the word, pull away as fast as you
can at the brush in the opening nearest the Indians, so that I may have
room in which to throw.”
These directions were no sooner given than the band of Majeronas,
yelling, sprang toward the stone fort. The four defenders bent down low,
that they might not be seen. The Indians ran with great speed,
brandishing bludgeons; they had cast their bows one side, evidently
believing the victory won. Señor Cisneros let them come to within a
stone’s throw, then he called:—
“Now let drive!” and Ferguson and Hope-Jones, jumping to the opening,
discharged three shots simultaneously, and the repeating-rifle of the
former was worked as it never had been worked before.
“Pull down the brush! Use both hands! Quick now!”
Harvey sprang to his task and tore away the small branches. The crackle
of a match was heard, and, just as angry, copper-colored faces showed at
the opening, the captain called out:—
“Duck down, everybody!”
The next instant a report as of a cannon was heard, followed by
screeches and howls; and a cloud of white smoke drifted away before a
light breeze that had sprung up, while a crackle as of giant
fire-crackers told of the exploding cartridges with which the gourd had
been loaded.
“Out and after them!” screamed the señor, seizing his rifle and pushing
his way through the opening, in which act he was followed by the three
companions.
But they met none in combat. The Indians were fleeing, running in a
confused mass along the river bank, shrieking in their fear. Two or
three picked up their bows as they sped, and turning, let fly each an
arrow, then joined the others; but the majority never turned. The
defenders of the little fort followed for several hundred yards, firing
as they went, not in endeavor to kill more, for they did not stop to
take aim, but to spread the alarm; until at last loss of breath caused a
halt. But the Majeronas, greatly reduced in numbers, kept on, their
howls growing fainter and fainter, until they were heard no more, and
the last of the savages disappeared down the river.
“Do you think they will come back?” panted Hope-Jones.
“No. They believe they attacked a band of devils. There is no longer
danger.”
“Where’s Harvey?” It was Ferguson who asked.
They looked around, and their cheeks blanched. The boy was not with
them.