My pang of agony was accompanied by a feeling of rage against the cause of it, and in blind fury I fired both barrels of my gun in the direction of the Indians, almost at the same moment as my uncle and the carpenter discharged theirs.

The reports were followed by another yell, the crashing of bushes and ferns, and the sound as of men tearing away.

“Take care, Cross,” cried my uncle.  “Load again, and keep under cover.  Hah! there goes one of the treacherous hounds.  Gone, and I’m not loaded.  Now I am.  Not hurt, are you, Nat?”

“I’m afraid I am,” I said, drawing in my breath with pain.

“Here, let’s look,” cried my uncle.  “Keep under cover, Pete.  I don’t want anyone else to be hurt.  You, Cross, look out, and fire at the first sign.  Now, Nat, what is it?  Tut, tut, tut!  There, keep a good heart, my lad.  It has gone clean through your shoulder.”

“Poisoned, uncle?” I cried anxiously.

“Pooh!  Nonsense, boy!  Hold still.  It will not be a long operation.”

I saw him take out his keen knife.

“Are you going to cut out the arrow head?” I said huskily.

“There is no need; the Indian did that for you.  Look here.”

I could not help shuddering, but I was firm, and watched him take hold of the slender arrow close to my shoulder, and with one stroke cut cleanly through it close to the wing-feathers.  Then, going behind me, he seized the other part and made me wince once more with pain, as with one quick, steady movement, he drew the missile right through.

“Hurt?” he said cheerfully.

“Horribly, uncle.”

“Never mind that.  It’s only through flesh.  No bone-touch, and there are only a couple of little holes to heal up.  Pan of water here, Pete.”

“Aren’t none, sir.  I was going to fetch a bucket when I see what I thought was birds.”

“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated my uncle.  “I must have some water to bathe the wounds.”

“All right, sir; I’ll run down for some.  Bucket’s down there.”

“No, no!  The Indians ­they may attack you.”

“What!” cried Pete in a whimpering voice; “touch me when I’m going for some water for Master Nat?  They’d better!  I’d smash ’em.”

Before he could be stopped he was bounding down the precipitous place, and my uncle turned anxiously to Cross.

“See any sign of them?” he said.

“Yes, sir, twice over; but they were too quick for me to get a shot.  They’ve waded the river down yonder, and I got a glimpse of two of ’em climbing up.”

“Hah!  Then he may escape them.  Cross, one of us ought to follow and cover him.”

“Right, sir.  I’m off,” cried the carpenter, and he hurried down our way to the river, just as we heard two sharp cracks from somewhere below.

“Make you feel sick, Nat?” said my uncle.

“No, I forgot it just then.  I was thinking what a trump Pete is.  Poor fellow!  He has risked his life to get me that water.”

“Yes,” said my uncle through his teeth:  “he’s a brave fellow, and he likes you, Nat.”

No more was said, and in a few minutes we heard the rustling of bushes and saw Bill Cross coming backwards with his gun at the ready, covering Pete, who was panting up with his bucket of water.

The next minute my smarting wounds were being bathed and the bleeding encouraged till it stopped naturally, when my uncle brought out his pocket-book, applied some lint from it, and bandaged the places firmly, afterwards turning a handkerchief into a sling.

“There,” he said, “you need not fidget about poison, my lad.  The place will soon heal.  Now then, any sign of the enemy?”

“No, sir,” cried Pete; “they cut away across the river, all but that chap that was hit.”

“Was one hit?” said my uncle eagerly.

“Yes, sir; he’s lying down yonder by the water, and he’s got our chopper.”

“What?”

“I come upon him lying bleeding, and as soon as he saw me he began to put an arrow on his bow-string; but I hit him on the nose, broke his bow in two, and chucked his arrows in the river.  He must have come before, and sneaked our old axe.”

“Then he’s there now?”

“Yes, sir; he can’t run.  You winged him ­I mean legged.  But I’ve got our chopper again.”

“Sit still, Nat,” said my uncle.  “Here, Pete, carry my gun, and you, Cross, come and cover me.  I can’t leave the poor wretch like that.”

I saw Cross frown as he followed my uncle, and Pete stopped for a moment behind with me.

“I mustn’t stop, Master Nat,” he said.  “I am sorry, sir, but don’t you be a downhearted ’un.  I shan’t be long.  I say:  who was right about the axe?”

I nodded my thanks to him, and then sat back, in acute pain, thinking about the sudden change in the state of our affairs, and of how necessary it would be for us to retreat into a safer part of the country.  It was all so unexpected and so vexatious, just as in all probability we might be on the point of discovering the birds we sought.

I was musing in a half-faint way, the pain and shock having made me feel very sick, when I heard the sounds of the returning party, and to my surprise they brought in the wounded Indian on Cross’s back, the poor fellow being in a half-fainting condition from a frightful wound in the right thigh.

As he was laid down on his back he began to come-to, and looked wildly round, while when he saw my uncle approach him knife in hand, he set his teeth and made a fierce attempt to rise.

But Cross was holding him from behind, and the poor fellow was helpless.  He evidently believed that his enemy was about to put him to death, and on finding that he could not help himself he seemed ready to calmly accept his fate, for he fixed his eyes upon my uncle with a bitter, contemptuous smile, and then folded his arms and lay there like an image cast in bronze.

It was not a fierce countenance, being smooth, large-eyed, and disposed to be effeminate and plump, while when my uncle busied himself over the terrible wound with the knife, and must have given the man excruciating pain, he did not even wince, but kept gazing hard at his surgeon who tortured him, as if proud and defiant to the last.

His expression only began to change when he saw the knife laid aside and Pete bring some water in the tin for my uncle to bathe the wound; and now it was full of wonder as the place was covered with lint from the pocket-book, and then carefully bandaged from the supply ready against accidents.

“There, my fine fellow,” said my uncle at last; “now if you keep quiet, you being a healthy fellow, young and strong, that bad wound will soon heal.  If you had left us alone you would not have got it.  You don’t understand, of course; but you must lie still.”

The Indian’s countenance changed more than ever.  He had fully grasped the fact that he was not to be slain, and also that his wound had been carefully dressed, and with his fierce aspect completely gone, he took hold of the hand with which my uncle was pressing him back to lie still, and held it against his forehead, smiling up at him the while; and then he sank back and closed his eyes.

“It’s a bad wound, Nat, but he’ll get over it.  That must have been your shot.”

“Why not yours?” I said.  “I couldn’t shoot with that arrow through me.”

“But you did, for it was done with the big swan pellets, and I had nothing but dust shot in my gun, for the little birds.”

“Oh!” I cried wonderingly.

“Ah, that’s why you made that poor fellow cry.”

As I lay and thought afterwards I was to my dissatisfaction convinced that mine had been the hand which fired the shot, and the knowledge of this somehow made me feel a kind of sympathy for the savage who lay there far more badly wounded than I, while the carpenter and my uncle, with Pete’s help, built up a kind of semi-circular hedge as a defence around us.

“We can’t begin our retreat with you in that condition, Nat,” my uncle said, “and I don’t like to be driven away by a little party of ruffians like these.”

“I could walk,” I said.

“I know that,” he replied curtly; “walk yourself into a state, of fever, and make your wound go bad.  Look at that fellow; Nature teaches him what to do ­lie still ­curl up like an animal, till his injury heals.  What are you thinking about?”

“That poor fellow’s wound.”

“Poor fellow!  Possibly the savage who sent that arrow through your shoulder.  You’re a rum fellow, Nat.”

“Well, you were just as sympathetic, uncle,” I said.  “See how you dressed his wound, just as if he were a friend.”

“No, I did not, Nat,” he said, smiling.  “I dressed him just as a surgeon should a wounded patient.  By the way, he did not seem to bear any malice.”

“Perhaps he will, uncle, when he knows I shot him.”

“Don’t tell him, then.  We’ll all share the blame.”

“So you mean to stop here, then?” I said.

“Yes, certainly, for the present.  Why, if we were to begin to pack up, I daresay the next thing we should see would be a flock of quetzals flying about.”

“But suppose a whole tribe of Indians attack us?”

“Not likely, Nat.  These people are few and greatly scattered; but if we are attacked we shall have to give the poor wretches a scaring with a few charges of shot ­I mean distant charges, scattered, not fired at close quarters like yours.”

The day passed slowly by, with my three companions working away to strengthen our little camp, and the wounded Indian sleeping.  I, too, dropped off for an hour during the great heat of the late afternoon, and awoke feeling feverish and strange.  But Pete was set to bathe my forehead with water, and the rapid evaporation made my head comparatively cool and pleasant, so much so that my uncle smiled.

“You’re going on all right, Nat,” he said, “and the wound will soon grow easier.”

The sun had passed over to the west, and was behind the cliff, leaving us well in shelter; the sound of the rushing water below sounded cool and pleasant, and I was lying back watching the wounded Indian ­Carib, my uncle called him ­when all at once there came a low howl from the thicket on the other side of the river.

“What’s that!  One of the howling monkeys?” I said to uncle.

“No,” he said softly, and I saw him reach out his hand slowly for his gun.  “Watch my patient.”

I turned my eyes to where the man lay, and saw that he had raised his head, and was gazing keenly in the direction whence the cry had come.

The next minute the howl was repeated, and it had hardly died out when it arose again, but this time from our prisoner, who placed his hands to his lips and sent forth a mournful cry.

Then it was answered from the other side, and the Carib turned excitedly to us, talking rapidly, but without our being able to comprehend a word.

One thing, though, was evident ­the poor fellow was highly excited, and he smiled and chattered at us, before repeating the cry, which was again answered, and then a kind of duet was kept up, with the distance and time between the calls growing shorter minute by minute.

“This is all very well,” said Cross softly, “but he’s bringing on his Injun mates.  You’ll tell us when to fire, sir?”

“Yes, if there is any need,” said my uncle.  “Be ready; that is all.”

Our prisoner watched us excitedly, and evidently grasped what was meant, for he began to talk to us eagerly, and then pointed downward again and again.

He was in the midst of an eager explanation to us when there was a rustling in the bushes below, and a dusky figure came up, caught sight of us behind the barricade, and stopped short.  But our prisoner uttered a call, and the dark, pleasant-faced figure came on fearlessly, found the opening we had left, and the next moment was down upon her knees wailing softly and passing her hands over the bandages, ending by laying her face against our prisoner’s breast, and beginning to sob.

“Nothing to fear from her,” said my uncle.  “It’s the poor fellow’s wife.”

Meanwhile the Carib was evidently explaining his position to the woman, and she turned to us, smiling, evidently ready to be the best of friends, while her manners showed that she meant to stay and nurse her wounded husband, whom she had traced to where he lay.

“Better be friends than enemies, Nat,” said my uncle.  “But one of us must keep watch to-night.”