But as they went farther on, the evidences of a native war became more pronounced. 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."
