“Right, Jock.”
Jock McGowan was wearing both gun and knife. Rod now heard him say, “Anybody want to dance? Any trouble out of the rest of you lugs?”
Rod still could not see Jock, but he could figure from the naked, startled expressions of a dozen others that McGowan must have rolled to his feet and covered them with his gun. Everybody in camp carried knives; most had guns as well and Rod could see that Roy Kilroy was wearing his although most guns were kept when not in use in the cave in a little arsenal which Carmen superintended.
But neither guns nor knives were of use; it had happened too fast, shifting from wordy wrangling to violence with no warning. Rod could see none of his special friends from where he was; those whom he could see did not seem disposed to risk death to rescue him.
Jock McGowan said briskly, “Chad Dick got ’em all covered?”
“Right, Skipper.”
“Keep ’em that way while I take care of this cholo.” His hairy legs appeared in front of Rod’s face. “Pulled his teeth, Bruce?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll do it. Roll over, sonny boy, and let me at your knife. Let him turn over, Bruce.”
Bruce McGowan eased up on Rod and Jock bent down. As he reached for Rod’s knife a tiny steel flower blossomed in Jock’s side below his ribs. Rod heard nothing, not even the small sound it must have made when it struck. Jock straightened up with a shriek, clutched at his side.
Bruce yelled, Jock! What’s the matter?”
“They got me.” He crumpled to the ground like loose clothing.
Rod still had a man with a knife on his back but the moment was enough; he rolled and grabbed in one violent movement and the situation was reversed, with Bruce’s right wrist locked in Rod’s fist, with Colonel Bowie threatening Bruce’s face.
A loud contralto voice sang out, “Take it easy down there! We got you covered.”
Rod glanced up. Caroline stood on the shelf at the top of the path to the cave, with a rifle at her shoulder. At the downstream end of the shelf Jacqueline sat with her little dart gun in her lap; she was frantically pumping up again. She raised it, drew a bead on some one past Rod’s shoulder.
Rod called out, “Don’t shoot!” He looked around. “Drop it, you two!”
Chad Ames and Dick Burke dropped their guns. Rod added, “Roy! Grant Cowper! Gather up their toys. Get their knives, too.” He turned back to Bruce McGowan, pricked him under the chin. “Let’s have your knife.” Bruce turned it loose; Rod took it and got to his feet.
Everyone who had been up in the cave was swarming down, Caroline in the lead. Jock McGowan was writhing on the ground, face turned blue and gasping in the sort of paralysis induced by the poison used on darts. Bob Baxter hurried up, glanced at him, then said to Rod, “I’ll take care of that cut in your ribs in a moment.” He bent over Jock McGowan.
Caroline said indignantly, “You aren’t going to try to save him?”
“Of course.”
“Why? Let’s chuck him in the stream.”
Baxter glanced at Rod. Rod felt a strong urge to order Caroline’s suggestion carried out. But he answered, “Do what you can for him, Bob. Where’s Jack? Jack you’ve got antidote for your darts, haven’t you? Get it.”
Jacqueline looked scornfully at the figure on the ground. “What for? He’s not hurt.”
“Huh?”
“Just a pin prick. A practice dart that’s all I keep in Betsey. My hunting darts are put away so that nobody can hurt themselves and I didn’t have time to get them.”
She prodded Jock with a toe. “He’s not poisoned. He’s scaring himself to death.”
Caroline chortled and waved the rifle she carried. “And this one is empty. Not even a good club.”
Baxter said to Jackie, “Are you sure? The reactions look typical.”
“Sure I’m sure! See the mark on the end sticking out? A target dart.”
Baxter leaned over his patient, started slapping his face. “Snap out of it, McGowan! Stand up. I want to get that dart out of you.”