WITHIN THE BARRICADE
Toma poked out his head from behind a gray pile of rocks and looked
down. Far below him, at the bottom of the ravine, he beheld a sight
which caused his hands to clinch involuntarily and his heart to quicken
a beat or two in righteous indignation.
In the Indian encampment, there was a very noticeable flurry and bustle
of excitement as a small party, headed by an exceedingly atrocious
individual, made its way into camp. With the exception of the leader,
Toma had never seen any of them before. Also, with the exception of the
leader, every man was weighted down with a load of what—even at that
distance—Toma recognized immediately as being the supplies he, Dick and
Sandy had discarded at the beginning of their hasty retreat.
Even the pony, which brought up the procession, was the self same
pack-horse he had ridden into the river that morning. Their supplies and
their horse were gone, but it was not this loss alone which had been the
direct cause of Toma’s anger.
The young guide flashed one more look of resentment in the direction of
the encampment, then turned quickly and made his way back to Dick and
Sandy, who were crouched within a natural rock barricade, about one
hundred yards distant.
“What did you find out?” Sandy demanded as Toma rejoined them.
“Indians get our supply an’ pony,” came the prompt answer.
“Well, that was to be expected,” said Dick. “It can’t be helped now. Did
you find out anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Toma see scar-face Indian.”
“What!” exclaimed Dick and Sandy in one voice.
“Scar-face Indian him there all right. Make himself big fellow. What you
think about that?”
“It’s an outrage!” stormed Dick. “No wonder we’re having trouble. So
Henderson is at the bottom of this after all.”
“If scar-face Indian here, Henderson not very far away,” speculated
Toma.
“Old Scar-Face must have discovered the mine before this if it’s located
in the ravine,” Sandy suddenly spoke up.
“It doesn’t matter much now where the mine is,” Dick stated
despondently. “We can’t do anything anyway. Our cause is pretty nearly
hopeless.”
“Uncle Walter is coming,” Sandy reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”
“Two or three weeks from now. We may all be dead before then.”
“We can defend ourselves here for a day or two,” said Sandy. “In the
meantime maybe something will turn up.”
“What about food and water?”
“Dick!” exclaimed Sandy, moving over and placing one arm affectionately
about his chum, “You’re not your usual self. It’s not like you to give
up so easily.”
Dick received the gentle rebuke with calm indifference. He stared
soberly out across the desolate, sun-filled space without speaking.
“Indians make night attack mebbe,” Toma suddenly broke the silence.
“Let ’em come,” growled Dick. “We’ll be ready. All I hope is that
Scar-Face leads the attacking party and that I can get a shot at him.”
“They’ll probably be in no hurry about that attack,” Sandy sagely
remarked. “They know we’re up here somewhere and practically helpless.
It would be a whole lot simpler and easier to starve us out.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Dick. “We’re trapped and they know it.”
“I tell you something,” Toma rose and began pacing back and forth across
the narrow, confining space within the barricade. “We have good chance
now to make ’em Indians all look foolish. Place over
there”—pointing—“where look down camp. You, me, Sandy go over there an’
start shoot rifles. Kill ’em plenty men in very few minutes. We drive
’em all bad fellows out of ravine.”
Dick and Sandy stared at each other aghast.
“What you say?” inquired Toma.
“Never!” shuddered Dick.
“Murder!” shivered Sandy.
“Why not?” the tone was plaintive. “Toma not understand.”
“You poor devil,” Sandy commenced grimly, but checked himself. “What
quarrel have we with those people down there, Toma? It’s not their
fault—it’s Henderson’s and the scar-face Indian’s.”
“All right, I go shoot him—that fellow.”
Dick’s sudden laugh relieved the tension.
“We didn’t come out here to kill anyone,” Sandy attempted to explain.
“We came out here to find the mine. It’s wrong to take any human life.”
Toma shrugged his shoulders.
“You mean you sit here an’ no shoot if attack come?” he asked in
amazement. “You sit here an’ let bad fellow kill you without so much
raise up your rifle?”
“If I’m cornered, I’ll fight, of course. But not until then.”
The guide shook his head and subsided into a puzzled silence.
“What we do then?” he asked presently.
“What I’d like to do,” Dick cut in sharply, “is to run away—get out of
this mess somehow.”
“How we swim river?” Toma wanted to know. “No chance build raft.”
“What about our own raft?” Sandy wondered. “Do you suppose they’ve
overlooked that?”
“I’ll give them more credit for brains than that,” was Dick’s opinion.
“I don’t think we ought to consider it.”
He paused for a moment, his brow wrinkling in thought.
“The only other way of escape is across the ravine, and I’m willing to
bet they have sentries posted every hundred yards.”
“Very probably,” Sandy agreed, “but even at that there’s a possibility
that we could make it. After dark there might be a chance. It’s better
than staying here.”
“In our present hopeless position,” said Dick calmly, “I’ll try
anything.”
“What about you, Toma?”
The young Indian drew himself up proudly.
“I go too,” he stated simply.
“Well, then, it’s decided.” Sandy arose and gazed out across the rough,
broken strip of land to the south, conscious of a sinking feeling
within.
To attempt to escape by way of the ravine was, as he well knew, a
desperate hazard. Their chance of getting through safely was slim
indeed—with every advantage in favor of their ruthless enemy.
“It’s the only thing we can do,” he declared, turning again toward his
two companions and speaking in a low, trembling voice.
Dick evaded Sandy’s direct gaze and he, too, looked out upon that weird,
desolate view. The afternoon sun was very bright and the rocks, gray and
white and brown, were like blinding mirrors to his eyes. Somewhere, deep
down within his breast, he could feel the beginning of a sob—a choking,
helpless feeling difficult to express.
“My throat’s dry,” said Sandy, “and I’d like to have a drink.”
“I go for water,” volunteered Toma.
Dick wheeled about quickly.
“No! No! Don’t be a fool, Toma. We’ll have to stand it. You can’t risk
your life now.”
In dull, aching monotony, the afternoon passed. The sun slipped down
through a bank of clouds to a flaming northwestern sky. Innumerable
shadows, spreading grotesquely about them, grew dark, then velvet-black,
merging finally into one complete inky blot.
“There aren’t a hundred stars out tonight,” Dick whispered to his two
delighted companions. “Conditions couldn’t be better.”
“It has clouded over,” said Sandy. “Thank God for that.”
Out of the west had come a cool, moist breeze. If it rained, so much the
better. Since their departure from Fort Good Faith, three weeks
previous, the days and nights had succeeded each other with no hint of
rain, a seemingly endless procession of sunlit and starlit hours.
“We ought to start pretty soon,” said Dick, as he paced uneasily,
restlessly about.
“I’m ready any time you fellows are,” Sandy replied.
Ten minutes passed. The wind seemed stronger now and was blowing more
from the south. Unable longer to endure the suspense, Toma plucked at
Dick’s arm.
“Come,” he whispered.
Slowly, cautiously, three figures worked their way up and over the rough
barricade of rocks and headed for the ravine.
“Keep close together,” cautioned Dick in a low voice. “Whatever happens,
we mustn’t become separated.”
In a few minutes they had reached the edge of the ravine and prepared
for the perilous descent. They had to feel their way now. Every step
forward was tedious, conscious effort. The moisture-laden wind,
breathing over the warm rocks, had produced a wet, slippery surface
under foot. Careful as the three boys were, one of them slipped or fell
occasionally, producing a sound which caused them to pause in
consternation in the belief that the noise must have carried to the
sentries below.
About half way down, a most disconcerting thing occurred. In attempting
to recover his balance, Sandy dropped his rifle. It slid out of reach as
he made a wild lunge for it, and a moment latter dropped twenty feet to
the ledge below. The loud metallic clatter resulting, broke across the
silence—so it seemed to Sandy—with a force and noise as terrifying as
that made by a derailed express train dropping over a cliff.
The three boys stood huddled together in speechless dismay. Had they
been heard? Would the sentries know now for a certainty that an effort
was being made to escape?
Sandy recovered his rifle and, following a whispered consultation, it
was decided to make their way along the slope of the ravine before
descending further. They had succeeded in covering a distance of perhaps
three hundred yards, when they paused again—this time in absolute
terror.
Up along the ridge, not far from their previous barricade, there arose a
medley of demoniacal shrieks and yells that would easily have struck
fear in the bravest heart. So suddenly and unexpectedly had it come,
that the three boys, white-faced and trembling, shrank back against the
side of the ledge too frightened even to move.