Part 23 (1/2)

”Look,” he said, ”there she is, at the far end of the cliff. They slid the girl down first and then the old, trussed-up chap.”

”But,” asked Simon, ”the horses didn't get across that way, did they?”

”The horses? They were done for. So they let them go. Two of my mates took three of them and have gone back to France with them. . . . If they get there, it'll be a bit of luck for them. The fourth, he's on the spit: we're going to have our dinner off him. . . . After all, one must eat!”

”And those people, where were they going?” asked Simon.

”Going to pick up gold. They were talking of a fountain flowing with gold pieces . . . real gold coins. We're going too, we are. What we're wanting is arms: arms that are some use.”

The tramps had risen to their feet; and, obeying an unconcerted and spontaneous movement, they gathered round Simon and Dolores. The man who had been speaking laid his hand upon Simon's rifle:

”This sort of thing, you know. A gun like that must come in handy just now . . . especially to defend a pocket-book which is probably a fat one. . . . It's true,” he added, in a threatening tone, ”that my mates and I have got our sticks and knives, for when it comes to talking.”

”A revolver's better,” said Simon, drawing his from his pocket.

The circle of tramps opened out.

”Stay where you are, will you?” he bade them. ”The first of you who moves a step, I shoot him down!”

Walking backwards, while keeping the men covered with his revolver, he drew Dolores to the end of the promontory. The tramps had not budged a foot.

”Come,” whispered Simon. ”We have nothing to fear from them.”

The boat, completely capsized, squat and clumsy as the sh.e.l.l of a tortoise, barred the second half of the river. In foundering she had spilt on the sloping sh.o.r.e a deck cargo of timber, now sodden, but still sound enough to enable Rolleston's gang to build a footbridge twelve yards long across the arm of the river.

Dolores and Simon crossed it briskly. It was easy after that to go along the nearly flat bottom of the keel and to slide down the chain of the anchor. But, just as Dolores reached the ground, a violent concussion shook the chain, of which she had not yet let go, and a shot rang out from the other bank.

”Ah!” she said. ”I was lucky: the bullet has struck one of the links.”

Simon had faced round. Opposite them, the tramps were venturing on the footbridge one by one.

”But who can have fired?” he demanded. ”Those beggars haven't a rifle.”

Dolores gave him a sudden push, so that he was protected by the bulk of the wreck:

”Who fired?” she repeated. ”Forsetta or Mazzani.”

”Have you seen them?”

”Yes, at the back of the promontory. You can understand, a very few words would enable them to make a deal with the tramps and persuade them to attack us.”

They both ran round to the other side of the stern. From there they could see the whole of the footbridge and were under cover from the snipers. Simon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

”Fire!” cried Dolores, seeing him hesitate.

The shot rang out. The foremost of the vagabonds fell. He roared with pain, holding his leg. The others hurried back, dragging him with them, and the promontory was cleared of men. But, though the tramps could not risk going on the footbridge, it was no less dangerous for Dolores and Simon to leave the protected area formed by the wreck.

Directly they became visible, they were exposed to Forsetta's or Mazzani's fire.

”We must wait till dark,” Dolores decided.