“He’s dead as a door-nail, bedad,” said the doctor. “And it’s ourselves that’d better be lavin’, and that mighty quick, or we’ll get plugged, too.” Even while he spoke the leaden messengers were whizzing about them with a vicious “pit—pit!”
Truscott, as he had said, was dead as a door-nail, and it was clearly useless to remain. And now came in their foresight in keeping their horses close at hand. Loosening the terrified animals, which were snorting and tagging wildly at their bridles, they mounted and dashed off at a gallop just as a number of dark forms issued swiftly and stealthily from the bush to cut off their retreat, while the enemy on the cliff kept up a continuous fire. Two or three assegais were thrown at them; and then the Kafirs, who could now be descried pouring down the rocks in swarms, seeing that they were well mounted, and the ground ahead was fairly clear, relinquished the pursuit.
“An’ didn’t I tell ye that we should have the niggurs down upon us?” cried McShane, turning in his saddle to look back at the peril they had so narrowly escaped. “That poor divil’s lost his number anyhow, and it’s glory be to the blessed saints that we’re not lyin’ alongside of him.”
“I rather think I’m hit, too. My arm feels as if it was going to drop off,” said Claverton, quietly. But he was deadly pale.
“Hit! are ye?” rejoined McShane, with an anxious glance at him. “Well, hold up till we get back to camp. It may not be very bad after all. Is it in the shoulder?”
“Yes, I think it’s only a spent ball. The bone isn’t touched.”
“Faith, and ye’d better have knocked off and come away when I first spoke. That poor divil would be alive and well now.”
Claverton turned to him in amazement.
“My dear McShane, what do you suppose I came out here for to-night?” he said, with a sinister laugh. “Not to play, did you?”
“Well, it’s lucky Jack Kafir took the throuble off your hands, me boy, or it’s on your way to the Orange River ye’d have to be now, and meself, too, likely enough. As it is it’ll be murdherin’ awkward.”