They passed several huts that had been burned, and
the native mule drivers began showing signs of fear.
"I don't like this," murmured Tom to his chum. "It looks bad."
"What can you do?"
"Nothing, I guess. We've got to keep on. No use turning back now.
Maybe the two rival forces have annihilated each other, and there
aren't any fighters left."
At that moment there arose a cry from some of the natives who, with
the mules and their burdens, had pressed on ahead.
"What's that?" exclaimed Tom.
"Something's happened!" gasped Ned.
"Bless my cartridge box!" cried Mr. Damon.
The three went forward and came to a little hill. They looked down
into a valley--a valley that had sheltered a native village, but the
village was no more. It was but a heap of blackened and fire-scarred
ruins, and there were still clouds of smoke arising from the grass
huts, showing that the enemy had but recently made their assault on
the place.
"Bless my heart!" cried Mr. Damon. "The whole place has been wiped
out."
"Not one hut left," added Ned.
"Hark!" cried Tom.
An instant later there arose, off in the woods, a chorus of wild
yells.
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