“That’s nice,” whispered the boy. “What for?”
“Jack tief. Want wagon, want horse, want all.”
“Then it’s war,” said Dyke, “and he shan’t have them.”
“Shoo!” whispered the woman, and she leaned forward with her head half out of the opening. Then turned quickly.
“Jack come, Jack one, Jack one, Jack one.”
“Four of them?” whispered Dyke.
“Oomps. Baas Dyke shoot.”
The boy pressed the triggers as he drew up the cocks of his piece, so that the clicking made was extremely faint, and then stood ready and expectant. But he had not long to wait. For almost directly there was a dull sound as of footsteps; a heavy breathing, and hands tugged at the tightly fastened canvas at the back of the wagon. Then there was a low whispering. Whoever it was passed along to the front of the wagon, and then there was a heavy breathing as the visitors swung themselves up on to the wagon-box, Dyke judging from the sounds that either three or four people had climbed up. Then the canvas was dragged back, and as Dyke pointed his gun, hesitating about firing, and then deciding to shoot overhead to startle the marauders, one crept in.
At that moment there was a whizz and the sound of a tremendous blow, followed by a loud yell of pain and a perfect shower of blows delivered with wonderful rapidity upon the attacking party, who sprang out and fell from the wagon front.
It was all almost momentary, and then Dyke was leaning out through the canvas, and fired twice at random.