All breathed easier at these reassuring words; all except Harvey, who said, “But there is a chance they may come, is there not?”
“Why, from your tone, I really believe you wish they would,” said the señor. “But,” he added, “that chance and a remark which I made to Mr. Ferguson have reminded me of something. I believe I said that a volley might have a demoralizing effect, did I not?”
“Then I shall endeavor to increase the effect. Didn’t I see a gourd in camp?”
“Harvey has one which Señora Cisneros gave him.”
“Let me have it, Harvey. I can’t promise to return it, but I may make it of use.”
He emptied some powder into the receptacle, then asked for a contribution of loaded shells, which he put with the black grains. With some shreds of cotton, which he twisted into shape, and some dampened powder he made a fuse and placed it in the opening of the gourd, then sealed it with moist clay made from the soil underfoot, dampened with water.
“There!” he exclaimed, “there’s a bomb! It may fail to ignite, and it will have to be handled quickly, but if it ever does go off in the midst of the copper-skins there will be a foot-race down the river that will prove interesting.”
He had been an hour making this weapon of defence. The hands of their watches pointed to four o’clock, and the shadows to the east of them commenced to grow long. Ferguson was on watch. The others were lolling about on the ground, thinking more of other matters than they had at any time since the evening before, when they were suddenly startled by a rifle shot.
An answering scream came from above their heads, and a wounded Majerona, who had crawled to the top of the lowest boulder and was peering into the camp, came rolling down upon them.
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.