“Ay.”
“Stand back!” cried Mr Raydon, authoritatively. “Grey!”
The latter took half a dozen steps backward, and stood waiting for orders.
“You, Gordon, and you, Dean, run to my house, and keep there in shelter.”
“Oh,” said the big fellow, with a laugh. “Turning nasty, eh? Well then, we’ll take it. Show him your shooting-irons, lads, and let him see that we can be nasty too.”
Half a dozen of the men pulled out revolvers, and there were a few sharp clicks heard.
“Did you hear me, Gordon?” said Mr Raydon, harshly. “Run.”
“I can’t run away, and leave you like this,” I said. “Obey orders, boy. Both of you back, quick!”
There was a something about him which enforced obedience, and I went back towards the house wondering why the other men did not come to their chiefs help, especially now that he was being backed slowly across the enclosure by the gang of men, each of whom had a revolver in his hand.
“Yes,” said Mr Raydon, sharply, and Grey and another man turned and ran for one of the little block-houses in the corner of the enclosure.