They gazed at the “things” for a silent moment, then cringing before the white man like the dogs they were, they dropped assegais and knobkerries in the dust and retreated sullenly, step by step, to the mine mouth. Girder close behind Hammond, opened the little gate leading to the enclosure round the shaft and hustled half a dozen boys into the power-house to set the cage going. Then, one by one, with downcast looks and modest mien the boys filed into the cage and were lowered in little companies down the mine. Hammond stood by silent, dominating, the sunshine glinting on his revolver barrel, Boston, casual and indifferent, lounging beside him. The two other men, unobliged even to draw their guns, contented themselves with speeding up an occasional loiterer by means of a brisk application of the boot. In the end, every “boy” of three hundred was at the bottom of the shaft, except those in the power-house. Hammond approached them.
“You too—get in,” he remarked briefly, and they got in, humble and sleek, with air deprecative of giving so much trouble. Dent and Girder took possession of the power-house and worked the cage, for as is well known, two white men can do the work of six natives any day in the week. Afterwards they cut the steel ropes that held the cage and it fell crashing to the bottom of the shaft.
“That’s all right,” said Hammond at last. “They’ve plenty of water, and a couple of days with empty stomachs will take the cheek out of them. At the end of that time, if all goes well, we’ll be here to let ’em up again—if not, so much the worse for them.”
“The blessed tinkers!” was all that Girder permitted himself to remark.
“Now you fellows,” said Hammond briskly, “take your horses and beat it for Mazoë, hell-for-leather. Get a party together—half a dozen guns and make for the Green Carnation. I shall go on ahead and help de Rivas hold out.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Girder carelessly. Hammond looked at him coldly.
“You will kindly do as I ask you, Bill. If you meet trouble between here and Mazoë, as you probably will, and one of you is potted, there is still a chance of the other getting in to give the alarm.”
Girder merely smiled. Hammond knew that obstinate smile, and he also knew there was no time to lose.
“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” he said brusquely. “We are not in this for glory, or fun, or friendship. Just remember there’s a woman in the matter, will you?—a sick woman. What you two fellows have got to do—or one or other of you—is to get together a big enough party to convey her in a cart to Mazoë. If you are delayed you will probably find when you reach us that we have left the ranch and taken to the bush. The house won’t be safe once the ammunition has given out—and I know the country all round there like the palm of my hand. There are plenty of places we can lie doggo in until help comes. But you must get help, and get it quick. Take the fresh horses, you’ve farther to go than I. I’ll take Dent’s. Go on now, Bill. Don’t be pig-headed—and take charge of Boston will you? I don’t want him with me. Where is the beggar?”
No one knew. A moment before he had been lounging idly against the power-house, his tongue lolloping from his mouth, his eye expressing boredom; a moment later he simply was not. It is hard to say what instinct had bidden him make himself scarce in a manner as swift and unobtrusive as possible, and turn into a motionless, sand-coloured ant-heap about fifty yards from the road down which anyone leaving camp must pass. No one had time to look for him and no one would have found him in any case. Hammond let loose a bad word, gave Girder’s hand a parting grip, and skimmed out of camp on Dent’s horse.