“I can tell you she saved the whole outfit, by preventing the niggers getting at the mules before we came up,” went on his informant. “I had it from Fullerton she shot three with her own hand.”
“Three mules?”
“No—niggers—don’t be a silly ass, Driffield. Only don’t make any allusion to it when you see her. She wants to forget it.”
“Of course. Any nice girl would. And she—by Jove, she’s splendid!”
“You’re not alone in that opinion,” said the other so significantly as to draw the obvious query—
“Why?”
“Well,” lowering his voice, “Lamont seems to be making powerful running in that quarter. In fact he pretty well gave the show away in his wild eagerness to start after them the moment he heard Fullerton’s crowd was on the road at all.”
Whereby it is manifest that Lamont’s secret was not quite such a secret as he—and the sharer of it—imagined.
He, the while, together with others, was watching the approaching dust-cloud, and a council of war was held. Most were in favour of allowing the raiders to approach quite close, and then surprise them with a raking volley. This followed up quickly by another and another could not fail to demoralise them utterly. Meanwhile the pickets came riding rapidly in.
“Large force of Matabele coming up the road, sir,” reported the first.