Catlike they had crouched and watched since early dawn. Catlike they
had played the old game of apparent weariness of the sport, of
forgetfulness of their prey and tricked their guileless victims into
hope and self-exposure, then swooped again, and the gallant lad whose
last offer and effort had been to set forth in desperate hope of
bringing relief to the suffering, had paid for his valor with his
life. One arrow at least had gone swift and true, one shaft that,
launched, perhaps, two seconds too soon for entire success, had barely
anticipated the leader's signal and spoiled the scheme of bagging all
the game. Blakely's dive to save his fallen comrade had just saved his
own head, for rock chips and spattering lead flew on every side,
scratching, but not seriously wounding him.
And then, when they "thought on vengeance" and the three brown muzzles
swept the opposite wall, there followed a moment of utter silence,
broken only by the faint gasping of the dying man. "Creep back to
Carmody, you," muttered Blakely to the trembling lad beside him. "You
are of no account here unless they try to charge. Give him water,
quick." Then to Stern, his one unhurt man, "You heard what he said
about distant firing. Did you hear it?"
"Not I, sir, but I believe _they_ did--an' be damned to them!" And
Stern's eyes never left the opposite cliff, though his ears were
strained to catch the faintest sound from the lower canon.
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