“No, thankye, old fellow,” he said. “It would be such dull work riding alone. What do you say to taking cover amongst the bushes?”
“Bah! Cover for the front, and none for flank or rear!”
“We could squat down back to back,” said West coolly, “and shoot a few of them first. I want to fight the brutes with their own weapons.”
“Once more, will you make a bolt of it?” cried Ingleborough faintly.
“No—I—will—not!” said West slowly and distinctly, and then, making a dash, he caught his comrade round the waist, letting him sink gently down upon the sand and stones, for his legs had given way and his face turned ghastly.
“Thanks, old man,” said Ingleborough, with a feeble smile and his eyes looking his gratitude.
He lay still now, with his countenance seeming to grow fixed and hard; but West opened his water-flask and poured a few drops between the poor fellow’s lips, when he began to revive at once, and lay perfectly still while his comrade removed his hat and proceeded to bind the ready-folded handkerchief tightly about the bleeding wound, caused by sharp contact with a stone when he fell.
“West,” groaned Ingleborough, recovering now a little, “once more, lad, think, think; never mind me! Mount; never mind the firing; ride for your life!”
“Once more, old fellow,” said West, through his teeth, “I won’t leave you in the lurch!”
“But the despatches, lad. I am only one, and they are to save a thousand.”