“Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky,” he said coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.

George sprang backward,—­Eliza uttered a shriek,—­the ball had passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of his wife, and struck in the tree above.

“It’s nothing, Eliza,” said George, quickly.

“Thee’d better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,” said Phineas; “they’re mean scamps.”

“Now, Jim,” said George, “look that your pistols are all right, and watch that pass with me.  The first man that shows himself I fire at; you take the second, and so on.  It won’t do, you know, to waste two shots on one.”

“But what if you don’t hit?”

“I shall hit,” said George, coolly.

“Good! now, there’s stuff in that fellow,” muttered Phineas, between his teeth.

The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment, rather undecided.

“I think you must have hit some on ’em,” said one of the men.  “I heard a squeal!”

“I’m going right up for one,” said Tom.  “I never was afraid of niggers, and I an’t going to be now.  Who goes after?” he said, springing up the rocks.

George heard the words distinctly.  He drew up his pistol, examined it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where the first man would appear.

One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and, the way being thus made, the whole party began pushing up the rock,—­the hindermost pushing the front ones faster than they would have gone of themselves.  On they came, and in a moment the burly form of Tom appeared in sight, almost at the verge of the chasm.

George fired,—­the shot entered his side,—­but, though wounded, he would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad bull, he was leaping right across the chasm into the party.

“Friend,” said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, and meeting him with a push from his long arms, “thee isn’t wanted here.”

Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees, bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay bruised and groaning thirty feet below.  The fall might have killed him, had it not been broken and moderated by his clothes catching in the branches of a large tree; but he came down with some force, however,—­more than was at all agreeable or convenient.

“Lord help us, they are perfect devils!” said Marks, heading the retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he had joined the ascent, while all the party came tumbling precipitately after him,—­the fat constable, in particular, blowing and puffing in a very energetic manner.

“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse to go back for help,—­that’s you;” and, without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks was as good as his word, and was soon seen galloping away.