“Trying to stalk us, sir. You’re right; that’s it. Give me the word, and I’ll open fire. He’ll think he never stalked such a sheep as me before.”
“It was my fancy, Gedge,” said Bracy. “They belong to the party whom we scattered yesterday, and they’ve been following on our track. Quick! we must have first fire.”
The last words had not quitted his lips when Gedge’s rifle cracked, and the danger was averted, for the man’s long gun dropped from his hands as he sprang up, crawling though he was, into a curious position on all-fours, rolled over on to his side, and them back again, to spring to his feet, and run as hard as he could after his companions, who had already taken to their heels.
“That’s a bad shot, and no mistake, sir,” said Gedge.
“The best you ever made, Gedge,” cried Bracy; “for it has done all we required.”
“Took him in the arm, sir, and spoiled his shooting for a month, I know. As good as killing him, I s’pose.”
“Better,” said Bracy. “We don’t want the poor wretch’s life; only to save our own. Now, what next? We’d better lie still for a bit to see if they rally and come on again.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gedge, watching the retreating party, and fiddling with the sighting of his rifle—“five hundred yards—six—eight,”—and last of all “thousand. I think I could send a bullet among their legs, sir. Shall I? Let ’em see that they’d better keep their distance.”
“Try and scatter the stones close to them,” replied Bracy. And as he lay upon his chest, with his feet raised and legs crossed, Gedge took a long and careful aim, pressed the trigger gently, and the next moment the retreating party bounded apart, scattering, and running swiftly on.
“Another good shot,” said Bracy; “though I could not see where it struck; it is evident that it did strike close to their feet.”