Delcarte and Taylor came up a moment later, and the three of

us worked over the fellow, hoping to revive him that he

might tell us what had happened, and what had become of the

others. My first thought was prompted by the sight I had

recently had of the savage native. The little party had

evidently been surprised, and in the attack Thirty-six had

been wounded and the others taken prisoners. The thought

was almost like a physical blow in the face--it stunned me.

Victory in the hands of these abysmal brutes! It was

frightful. I almost shook poor Thirty-six in my efforts to

revive him.

I explained my theory to the others, and then Delcarte

shattered it by a single movement of the hand. He drew

aside the lion's skin that covered half of the Grabritin's

breast, revealing a neat, round hole in Thirty-six's chest--

a hole that could have been made by no other weapon than a

rifle.

"Snider!" I exclaimed. Delcarte nodded. At about the same

time the eyelids of the wounded man fluttered, and raised.

He looked up at us, and very slowly the light of

consciousness returned to his eyes.

"What happened, Thirty-six?" I asked him.

He tried to reply, but the effort caused him to cough,

bringing about a hemorrhage of the lungs and again he fell

back exhausted. For several long minutes he lay as one

dead, then in an almost inaudible whisper he spoke.

"Snider--" He paused, tried to speak again, raised a hand,

and pointed down-river. "They--went--back," and then he

shuddered convulsively and died.

None of us voiced his belief. But I think they were all

alike: Victory and Snider had stolen the launch, and

deserted us.