“Then you ought to have been, my lad; for there’s them at home as wouldn’t like us two to be killed.”
“Don’t! Don’t! Jem!” cried Don. “Come on. There’s a man over! Two—three—four! Look!”
He ran toward the side, where a desperate attack was being made, and, as he said, four men were over, and others following, when once more the pistols sent down a couple who had mounted the fence, one of them being shot through the chest, the other dropping on seeing his companion fall, but with no further hurt than the fright caused by a bullet whistling by his ear.
The four who were over made a desperate stand, but Tomati joined in the attack, and the daring fellows soon lay weltering in their blood; while, as Don rapidly loaded once more, he saw that Tomati was leaning on his spear, and rocking himself slowly to and fro.
“Are you hurt?” said Don, running up, and loading as he went.
“Hurt, my lad? Yes: got it horrid. Look here, if you and him see a chance make for the mountain, and then go south’ard.”
“But shall we be beaten?”
“We are beaten, my lad, only we can’t show it. I’m about done.”
“Oh!”
“Hush! Don’t show the white feather, boy. Keep on firing, and the beggars outside may get tired first. If not— There, fire away!”