The Defence of Kwabulazi.
All round the earthwork men were posted, many for the air was keen and biting. The stars, not yet faded, shone frostily, but there was no mist; and for this they were thankful. Each man had a gun of some sort, from an up-to-date Mauser or Lee-Metford, down to a double-barrelled shot-gun.
The first dull red streaks had begun to appear in the eastern sky, and at the sight a thrill of excitement ran along the circle, for such is almost invariably the time chosen by the wily savage for making his murderous rush. These were all prepared to give him a most unhealthy reception.
“Don’t light that silly pipe, Jenkins,” growled Hyland to his next door neighbour. “D’you hear? What are you doing, man? D’you think we want ’em to know we’re anxiously waiting to welcome them?”
The man addressed snarled.
“Who the ’ell are you?” he grunted. “I’m not taking orders from anyone.” Still he hardly dared disobey. Hyland Thornhill had a reputation for being a terror with his fists, and he was as strong as an elephant.
“I’ll knock it out of your silly jaws if you attempt to light it,” was the uncompromising answer. “Hallo!” as he became aware of another presence just behind him. “What are you doing here, Edala? Go in at once.”
“I’m going to take a hand in this game,” she answered, showing her revolver—her brother had impounded her gun, having none of his own.
“Not if I know it. Clear back in again at once, d’you hear.” Then in a tender undertone, “Be sensible, little girl. Go inside, and keep all those women from yelling themselves to death with funk directly. You can do it.”
She obeyed, with no further demur.