“What the—”
“Who the—” They both stood up as the horse came clattering into the clearing, and its rider gasping and haggard flung himself down. He was one of de Rivas’ assistants out at the Green Carnation Mine—a young Scotchman called Dent, well known to them both.
“The natives are ‘up.’ They’ve murdered everyone in our district except de Rivas and his wife,” he burst forth. “You fellows had better get your horses and scoot for Mazoë before—.”
“Steady, Dent,” said Hammond in a voice like cold steel. At the first mention of trouble, he had thrown his eye around and in a flash heard and seen the danger signals about him—his servants’ faces, the timbre of the song in the kraal, the sudden dead silence which, with the horseman’s coming had fallen on camp and kraal, and—the rustle of feet creeping up behind the mine-head shanties!
“Pull yourself together. My boys are observing you. Get your revolver from your hut, Girder, and all the ammunition you can lay hands on, but keep them out of sight.” (He had his own revolver on him—too wise a citizen of Africa ever to be without it.) “Sit down, my dear fellow,” he now added heartily to Dent, and called for fresh coffee, sitting down himself too, but with his face towards the mine-head. Girder coming back casually from his hut resumed his chair. Speaking in an ordinary voice, smoking, and pouring out coffee, Hammond questioned the Scotchman and elicited facts.
The natives had set to work at four o’clock that morning, and systematically visiting every farm, hut, and tent within the district had butchered the surprised and defenceless occupants. Everyone at the Green Carnation taken unawares had been knobkerried or assegaied to death—except de Rivas and his wife who got warning in time to barricade themselves in their ranch. Dent had been with them and the two men had managed to drive the demons off for a time, but it was certain that they would return. In the circumstances, de Rivas had ordered Dent to try and get away by means of an old mine working that came right up close to the back verandah of the house and bring help to them, for Mrs de Rivas was a sick woman and could not travel any distance except in comfort, and well protected.
“They can’t last out long,” finished Dent dismally. “Half their ammunition is gone—Mrs de Rivas is in hysterics most of the time—if I don’t get help they’ll be done for in a few hours—I must push on to Mazoë and—”
His sentence was broken off by the smart snap of a revolver. Hammond was firing across Girder’s shoulder, not once but many times.
Snap—phit! Snap—pht! Snap—pht! And the grim eyes of the man behind the revolver snapped and flashed too, as he picked off one after another of those who led the advancing horde. In less time than it takes to write it, five of the leaders were groaning in the dust, and the murderous band behind had fallen back dumbfounded, staring like fascinated rabbits at the man who now advanced on them still covering them with that gleaming deadly revolver and his ice-cold deadly glance. At last, he flung them a few brief words in their own tongue.
“Get down to your work in the mine. Anyone who loiters will be shot—like these things here.”