The Frontier Boys in the Grand Canyon Part 29

CHAPTER XXII

THE ATTACK

We had only a couple of minutes for antic.i.p.ation, for we were coming down like a runaway race-horse toward the narrow place in the chasm where they stood.

Jim swung the boat over to the middle of the stream to get the benefit of the fastest rapids, for it was speed just now that we needed more than anything else.

We might have steered in close to the wall under them, but there was a nasty "sag" that would have rendered us helpless, and when we did get into the current again we figured that we would lose headway and make a better target.

We could make out that there was great excitement among the Indians, on the ledge some four hundred feet above the stream. There was little doubt about their intentions now, and they were not of the peaceful variety.

One of them had a carbine which he aimed toward us, a little puff of smoke and then there was a flick in the water back of us.

Others stood with bows drawn back at full strength as they poised forward and let fly a snow storm of their white feathered darts.

Swish, swish they cut into the water all around us.

"It beats the hail storm way back in Kansas," yelled Jim.

Six or more of the arrows struck in the boat. One transfixed the top of the cabin. As if stung, our boat leaped forward down the rapid.

Now we were almost under the party of Indians. As I dodged into the cabin where Tom was already curled up, I saw them stand poised with stones, some grasping them above their heads with both hands. Then they hurled them down in a regular hail. The water splashed in white foam all around the boat and the spray dashed in all directions.

One large round stone struck the bow splintering a board. Several more fell crash on the deck. Two grazed Jim as he dodged, yet stuck valiantly at his post, holding the boat to the current. He was splashed from head to foot with the flying spray. Fortunately none of the missiles struck the steering oar.

Finally a sh.e.l.l,--well it seemed like it, but I mean a stone,--came down fair on the roof of the cabin, splintering through and falling on Tom's leg. This smoked us out, and we crawled out on deck.

"Give those fellows a shot," yelled Jim, "make 'em dance, Jo."

I seized my rifle from the side of the cabin and leveled it back up the canyon at the group of Indians, who had given us such a warm reception.

It was laughable to see the effect upon them as I aimed. All that could dropped flat to the ledge, making themselves extremely small. Some clambered winding up the rough face of the rock.

I picked one of the climbing Indians and fired, the roar of the concussion in the narrow canyon was startling. It rolled back and forth like the thunder of artillery.

At my third shot an Indian slipped, it was one below the fellow I was aiming at, caught frantically at the face of the rock, missed the narrow ledge and shot down toward the river, whipped twice over in his fall, and with a great splash, disappeared into the muddy, whirling river.

I shall never forget the dark velocity with which that Indian fell. It was something appalling and it made me shrink inwardly, even if the fellow was our enemy.

"Good shot, boy," yelled Jim.

"He wasn't the fellow I was aiming at," I explained, "it was the one above him."

"Why didn't you keep still," came from Tom, "no one would be the wiser and you might have had the credit of a fine shot."

"I don't see it," I replied, "there's no real satisfaction in that sort of a bluff. Then, too, you establish a reputation that you can't live up to in case of need and that's no fun."

"Right you are, Jo," commented Jim. "Don't mind Tom's advice because he is going to be a lawyer."

"I'm more likely to be a cripple," retorted Tom. "That stone came near breaking my leg."

"To the oars, boys," suddenly cried Jim, "here comes another rapid.

Never mind the leg now, Tom. We will run ash.o.r.e as soon as we can."

So we took our places again. The board on Tom's side was smashed by a rock and as we dashed into the rapid we begun to s.h.i.+p water. Fortunately this series was nothing like so bad as we had before pa.s.sed through.

In a half hour we got into quieter water and soon sighted a gravel beach at the foot of a cliff that here receded some.

"We will run in there and look things over," announced Jim. "Stand ready to throw over the bow anchor, Jo. The river is running strong there. We will have to catch it just right."

Partly by good luck and good management we did manage to lay alongside the gravel beach, though "the Captain" pulled taut at the anchors.

"What do you think of that for a sc.r.a.pe?" asked Jim. "Talk about it raining pitchforks, why, it rained arrows and hailed rocks. I know now something how it would be to be under fire in battle. But this was fun."

"You were certainly _under_ fire if I'm a judge," commented Tom.

"It's a wonder you weren't struck, Jim," I said.

"It seemed like a miracle to me," he replied. "Why, two big rocks just grazed me and an arrow struck right between my feet and I don't know how many swished by me. They simply made a pincus.h.i.+on of the water around me."

"I'm the real hero," grinned Tom, sarcastically, "because I got wounded.

It was a hard b.u.mp too."

"It's lucky that you had a roof over you," I remarked.

"You were just as lucky," he retorted.

"All hands and the cook repair s.h.i.+p," commanded Jim. "We might just as well get the surplus stones overboard. We don't need so much ballast."

There must have been eight stones of various sizes, but mostly round.

The largest was about eight inches in diameter. The eight pounder, Jim called it.

"It made the old boat s.h.i.+ver when that landed," remarked Jim. "It's the only one that broke the deck."

It had embedded itself in the planking, and when he yanked it out we could see through to the water underneath. The other stones had left bad dents and bruises on the three half-inch planking, but none had gone through except the eight-inch sh.e.l.l above referred to.

"Lucky we brought those extra boards along," said Jim. "We will soon fix up that hole in her bow."

"And put a new roof on the cabin," I pleaded, "that's up to Tom because the stone that broke it hit him on the leg."

"You've got a logical mind, haven't you?" sneered Tom. "It wasn' my fault that the c.o.o.n Indian threw the rock that did the smas.h.i.+ng."

"Don't go to arguing, Tom," said Jim, "but get to work; Jo is just guying you, Tom," he concluded.

It sounded like a carpenter shop set up in that grim canyon, for a while, with the drawn rip of the saw and the ringing of the hammers driving home the nails.

Every sound was sent bounding and echoing from rock to rock on either side, until the canyon was like one great clangorous workshop.