"I expect they will pluck up their courage to make a rush now, Wilfrid," Mr. Atherton said. "If it had not been for these new arrivals I think they would have soon drawn off, for we must have diminished their numbers very considerably. Don't fire again for a bit; we had best keep our rifles loaded so as to be ready for them when they pluck up courage to charge. When they do, be sure you keep your revolver as a reserve for the critical moment."
Five minutes later a tremendous yell rose in the air. The natives leaped to their feet from behind the bushes, fired their guns at their hidden foes, and then, tomahawk in hand, rushed forward.
Three shots rang out almost simultaneously from the mouth of the defile and three of the natives dropped dead in their tracks. The rest rushed forward in a body. Mr. Atherton and the settler leapt to their feet, and the former opened fire with his Colt's revolver when the leading natives were within ten yards of him. His aim was as accurate as when directed against a mark stuck against a tree, and a man fell at each shot. But the natives' blood was thoroughly up now, and in spite of the slaughter they rushed forward. There was no room in the narrow defile for two men to swing their rifles, and Mr. Atherton and the settler stepped forward to meet the foe with their clubbed rifles in their hands. Two crashing blows were delivered with effect, but before the settler could again raise his weapon three Maoris were upon him. One tomahawk struck him in the shoulder and the rifle fell from his hands. Another raised his tomahawk to brain him, but fell with a bullet from Wilfrid's revolver through his chest; but the third native brought his weapon down with terrible force upon the settler's head, and he fell in a heap upon the ground. The tremendous strength of Mr. Atherton stood him in good stead now. The first blow he had dealt had smashed the stock of his rifle, but he whirled the iron barrel like a light twig round his head, dealing blows that broke down the defence of the natives as if their tomahawks had been straw, and beating them down as a flail would level a wheat stalk. Those in front of him recoiled from a strength which seemed to them superhuman, while whenever one tried to attack him in the rear Wilfrid's revolver came into play with fatal accuracy. At last, with a cry of terror, the surviving natives turned and retreated at the top of their speed.
"Hot work, Wilfrid," Mr. Atherton said as he lowered his terrible weapon and wiped the streaming perspiration from his face; "but we have given the rascals such a lesson that we can journey on at our leisure. This is a bad business of poor Sampson's. I will help you down first and then we will see to him. Recharge your revolver, lad," he went on as Wilfrid stood beside him; "some of these fellows may not be dead, and may play us an ugly trick if we are not on the look-out."
Wilfrid reloaded his pistol, and Mr. Atherton then stooped over the fallen man.
"He is desperately hurt," he said, "but he breathes. Hand me that revolver, Wilfrid, and run back and tell Mrs. Sampson her husband is hurt."
Wilfrid had gone but a yard or two when he met his mother and the settler's wife, who, hearing the cessation of the firing, were no longer able to restrain their anxiety as to what was going forward. Mrs. Renshaw gave a cry of joy at seeing Wilfrid walking towards her.
"Is it all over, my boy, and are you unhurt?"
"It is all over, mother, and they have bolted. I have not had a scratch, for I have been lying down all the time in shelter; but I am sorry to say, Mrs. Sampson, that your husband is badly hurt.
"No; he is not dead," he continued in answer to the agonized expression of inquiry in her eyes. "He has been stunned by the blow of a tomahawk, and is, as I said, badly hurt; but he will, I trust, get over it."