They ceased paddling and appealed to their guns, whose bullets began whistling about the heads of the defenders in the other boat.
Who of our friends did it will never be known, but one of them perforated the gaunt scoundrel who, with his form bent over, was pushing the pole while he stalked the length of the boat, returning again to the prow to repeat the performance.

The fellow emitted a screech like a wounded tiger and leaped several feet in air, coming down on the gunwale, over which he toppled into the water and was seen no more.

It was the spirited defiance of the white men that told.
Screening themselves as best they could they continued firing, Jack Everson occasionally adding a shot from his revolver by way of variety.
The conformation of the other boat and its crowded condition prevented the natives from sheltering themselves as did those who were using them as targets.

In short, the wretches were getting the worst of the business, and it did not take them long to learn the fact.

Left without control, their boat began drifting with the current, which being stronger than along shore gradually carried it down stream and out of sight.