“Throw up your own!” said West defiantly, and then to his bitter annoyance he started on one side, for there was a flash, simultaneously a whizz close to his face, and instantly the sharp report of a rifle.
Recovering from the sudden shock to his nerves caused by his previous unbelief that the enemy would be so cowardly as to fire upon a perfectly helpless prisoner, West swung himself round to face the man who had fired at him from such close quarters that the flash of the powder had scorched his cheek.
The Boer was busily thrusting a fresh cartridge into the breech of his piece, and as he met the young man’s eyes he burst out into a coarse and brutal laugh.
“Throw up your hands, then, you cursed rooinek!” he cried, “or I’ll blow out your brains!”
“Not if I die for it!” cried West. “You cowardly cur!” And turning as the Boers closed him in, he continued, with bitter contempt, and speaking in their own tongue: “I suppose you are a specimen of the brave peasant farmers making a struggle for their liberty!”
“You keep a civil tongue in your head, young man,” growled out one of the party in English, “unless you want to feed the crows!”
“You keep your cowardly gang in order first before you dictate to me!” cried West, turning upon the speaker sharply. “Do you call it manly to fire at close quarters upon a party of two?”
“No!” said the man shortly, as he turned round and said a few angry words in the Boer jargon—words which were received by some with angry growls, while the major portion remained silent and sullen.
“You’re not our cornet! Mind your own business, before you’re hurt!” cried the man who had fired, taking a few steps towards the spot where West stood, and, seizing him savagely by the throat, he tried to force him to his knees.
But he tried only with one hand—his left—his right being engaged by his rifle, and to his utter astonishment the prisoner retorted by kicking his legs from under him and flinging him upon his back.