"Why not wait until they are halfway across; or, better still, not wait
at all?" inquired the doctor.

Jack Everson made no reply, but, lying down on his back, he slightly
separated his raised knees, and, by crossing his ankles, made a rest
for the barrel of his rifle. The left arm was crooked under his head,
so as to serve as a pillow or support, leaving the hand to steady the
stock of his gun, while the right inclosed the trigger guard.

The horsemen, instead of riding side by side, were strung along in a
line, with the leader several paces in advance and mounted on a rather
large horse of a coal-black color. Directly behind him came one upon a
bay, while a little further back rode another on a white steed. There
could be no question that they were on their way to kill without mercy.

The situation was intensely trying to father and daughter. The whole
party of Ghoojurs had entered the Ganges and were steadily approaching.
The water was so shallow that it could be seen as it splashed about the
bodies of the riders, who were talking and laughing, as if in
anticipation of the enjoyment awaiting them. They preserved their
single file, like so many American Indians in crossing a stream, and
their last thought must have been of any possible danger that could
threaten them from the three on the further bank.

The situation was becoming unbearable when the rifle cracked with a
noise no louder than a Chinese cracker, and a faint puff of smoke
curled upward from the muzzle of the weapon. At the same moment the
Ghoojur at the front, on his black horse, flung up his arms and tumbled
sideways into the water, which splashed over his animal's head.