The only answer he obtained was from his comrade’s piece, for the latter fired again, and another Boer sprang into sight not a hundred yards away, fell upon his knees, and then rolled over.
“Ingle, old fellow,” cried West; “don’t say you’re hurt!”
“Oh!” groaned Ingleborough. “Wasn’t going to, old man; but that last brute got me.”
“Hurt much?”
“Much? It’s like red-hot iron through me. Oh, if I only had some water!”
“Water?” cried West, springing up. “Yes; I’ll get some.”
Crack, crack, crack! Half-a-dozen rifles rang out in different directions, and in an instant West suffered for his thoughtless unselfish act, for he felt as if someone had struck him a cruel blow with a sjambok across the face from the front, while someone else had driven the butt of his rifle with all his force full upon his shoulder-blade—this blow from the back driving him forward upon his knees and then causing him to fall across Ingleborough. Then for a few moments everything seemed as a blank.
“Hurt much?” came the next minute, as if from a distance.
“Hurt? No!” said West huskily, and he made an effort and rose to his knees. Then, stung to rage by an agonising pain which stiffened him into action, he levelled his rifle once more, took a quick aim at a couple of the Boers who were running towards them in a stooping position, fired, and distinctly saw one of the two drop to the ground.
The next moment someone fired over his shoulder, and the other went down, just as West’s rifle dropped from his hand and he fell over sideways, yielding to a horribly sickening sensation, followed by a half-dreamy fancy that someone had felt for and got hold of his hand, to grip it in a way that was at first terribly painful—a pang seeming to run up from hand to shoulder. The pain appeared to grow worse and worse, then deadened, and came again, and so on, like spasms of agony, while all the time the firing went on from all around.