Piet raised his head, and his heart almost stopped, as on the left of the cattle he saw Zulus running like greyhounds, speeding to reach a kopje by which the cattle must be driven, and his startled glance roaming further, marked a thin grey whisp of smoke curling up the mountain’s dark side, while his ear caught the hoarse sound of the Zulu horn spreading the alarm.
Groot Andries turned his head and looked long.
“Alle magtij!” he cried; “they sleep not up there. May the Groot Heer help us out for our wives sake.”
Young Piet stared at the big man, then glanced back up Zunguin’s rock-rimmed summit, and saw tiny dark figures like ants hurrying amid the huge rocks. He moistened his lips, and looked at his horse.
“Mount and ride, neef,” said Andries, softly. “Keep towards the Blood River over by Kopje Alleen. Go, little neef.”
“Ja!” growled Stoffel, who was smoking furiously; “loop, little one!”
Young Piet stared at them wildly, then he looked ahead and saw the cattle coming on in a mass, with his own red heifer leading. He saw, too, his father stand alone, looking back, while the other burghers rode hard behind the cattle, and the Zulus poured along untiring. Why did his father stop? Could he not see the warriors?
“Father,” he screamed; “ride!” He would have risen, but a heavy hand was laid upon him.
“Remember the order,” growled Stoffel—“to keep ourselves hid.”
“I will be still,” said Piet, quietly. Then he saw his father throw up his gun and shoot, while another burgher halted and wheeled round with his rifle ready. With a rush the cattle swept by—the burghers after.