“Call in the bullocks,” said the doctor to Brookes, who uttered a loud yell somewhat like the yodel of the Swiss peasants to their cattle on the mountain side.
The great sleek beasts responded directly, and came from where they were grazing, bellowing loudly, right up to the waggon, as if expecting to be yoked.
“To keep them from being speared,” said the doctor to Nic. Then to the men: “Yoke up, and drive the waggon right out into the open. They could reach the poor beasts from behind those trees.”
The men set to work leisurely enough, while at a word from his father Nic, whose hands trembled from excitement, bridled and saddled Sour Sorrel.
“Take off the hobbles, boy,” said the doctor; and this was done. A few minutes later the bullocks, which had from long habit taken their places readily, were yoked, and drew out the waggon right into a clear spot away from trees, which would shelter the enemy if they made an attack.
“Hah!” ejaculated the doctor, “now we can breathe freely. Brookes, you are all right with a gun. Have you ever used a piece, Leather?”
“Not much,” said the man sourly; “but I know how to load, and can keep you going.”
“My son will load,” said the doctor sternly. “You must do your best.”
“Yes,” said the man shortly; and Nic thought to himself, “Father does not want me to shoot any one.”
“Now then, keep a sharp look-out,” said the doctor. “If the blacks show, up at once into the front of the waggon, and we will take the back. No firing unless they try to spear the cattle. Then the blacks must accept their fate.”