“Is it, sir?”
“I mean, there’s no question of retreating now that the ponies are gone. It’s either fight to the last, or surrender.”
“You mean, sir, that there were three things to do?”
“Yes; and now it’s one of two.”
“Isn’t it only one, sir? I think the lads feel as I do, right-down savage, and ready to fight to the last.”
“Very well,” said Dickenson; “then we’ll fight to the last.”
The sergeant smiled, and then for a time all lay perfectly still, fully expecting that one or other of the many bullets which came whizzing by would find its billet; but though there were several very narrow escapes, no one was hit, and though the enemy in front had greatly lessened the distance, their bullets struck no nearer. But the men grew very impatient under the terrible strain, and all three kept on turning their heads to watch their officer, who lay frowning, his rifle in front and his chin supported by his folded arms.
“Ah!” came at last, in an involuntary sigh of relief from all three, as they saw Dickenson alter his position after the enemy had made a fresh and perceptible decrease in the distance between them by urging their ponies forward, the men’s legs being strongly marked, giving the ponies the appearance of being furnished with another pair, as their riders stood taking aim and resting their rifles across the saddles.
But no order to fire came from Dickenson, who still remained quiet. Then all at once:
“Sergeant,” he said, “I’ve practised a great deal with the sporting rifle, but done very little of this sort of thing myself. I’m going to try now if I can’t stop this miserable sneaking approach of the enemy.”