Pryce returned with his six men and placed them. They could not be seen, and their rifles commanded the road. They were steady and quiet. Pryce showed them a point on the road. When the rebels reached that point, Pryce would give the word to fire. They seemed to come very slowly.
But they neared the point at last. One man walked before the rest, waving a torch and singing loudly. At parts of his song the rest broke into laughter. They came noisily, in disorder, without precaution; evidently they looked for an easy and certain triumph, in the absence of the King and the patrol.
“Sampson,” said Pryce to the man nearest him, “what’s that chap singing?” Pryce could not make it out, though he knew something of the native language.
The patrol man whom he had addressed as Sampson prided himself on his English. He translated a few phrases of the song. They concerned the white woman at the King’s house.
“Thanks,” said Pryce. “I’m just going to give the word. Mark the singer, Sampson, and let’s see if you can shoot. Fire!”
There were about a score of men on the road, and four fell at the first volley; the singer was one of the four, and Sampson smiled. The rest stood gaping, taken utterly by surprise. A second and a third volley followed in quick succession. The few who were left fled down the road in panic.
Sampson straightened his back and patted his rifle. “Very good,” he said complacently. “Dead shot. Very good.”
“You’re all right,” said Pryce, “but the two at the end of the line spoiled the bag.” Pryce sent them off now to the back of the house, and as he turned saw Lechworthy. “So you meant to see the last of it after all,” he said.
“But it’s terrible,” said Lechworthy, “terrible. I’ve seen nothing like this before, you know. One moment dancing and singing—the next moment dead.”
“Well,” said Pryce, “we didn’t invite them. And somebody had got to die over this game.”