"Hit!" he murmured, a cold chill running all over his body, for the shriek had startled him. "Poor beggar! I imagine he thought, as I did, that the firing was done with for a time, and sat up to listen. That second bullet must have caught him, and probably killed him instantly. Well, it is hard for him but fortunate for me, for he lay right in my track."
It was indeed a lucky shot for Dudley, but for his comrades behind it was a very different matter. Harold Joyce, the young commander of the party, had fired the weapon, intending that it should be the very last to be directed along the path which Dudley was taking. He had judged the elevation of his shot as carefully as possible considering the darkness, and he had sent it swishing through the trees some three feet above the ground, high enough to escape our hero's head. But the sudden shriek dismayed him. He dropped the weapon, turned deathly pale, and snatched desperately at Pepito's sleeve.
"Who was that?" he demanded anxiously. "Oh, I have killed him! Do you hear me? I have shot the best friend I have ever had, the bravest and most generous fellow under the sun."
He was almost weeping. There were big tears in his eyes, while the handsome gaucho beside him heard him gulp down a sob. Harold was thoroughly unhinged by that awful shriek. Fear that he had killed his friend drove him frantic, and, starting to his feet, he would have shouted aloud, had not Pepito restrained him.
"Lie still, señor," he said in firm but friendly tones. "That call came from a point far beyond the spot where our leader lies. I am sure of that fact, for my ears are good. It was one of the enemy who fell, and at this moment the señor who has so bravely gone from our fort is lying as still as death, waiting for our fire to cease so that he may crawl onward. Silence, señor! If you call, all these ruffians will know that we are making an effort."
It was true. Slowly it dawned upon Harold's brain that a call to his friend would warn the enemy. He longed to be able to give a shout, to send some signal to Dudley and to receive one in return. He would even have crawled out of the fort and followed him, with the one purpose of convincing himself that his old friend was unharmed. But the tall, sturdy gaucho stretched beside him held him with a firm hand, and whispered reassuringly to him, though he himself in his own heart had also some misgiving.