Chapter Seven.
“In Yon Strait Path a Thousand may well be Stopped by Three.”
And now, as Grenville listened intently, he could distinguish the tramp of a body of armed men approaching, and with a beating heart he kneeled down upon the bridge, projecting his rifle over the wooden parapet to steady it; and when the Mormon band, upwards of one hundred strong, came into view, debouching from the trees a quarter of a mile away, he, to their utter astonishment, challenged them in the most audacious fashion:
“Halt, or I fire!”
All the reply to this was a shout of derision, and the entire party commenced a jog-trot over the space which intervened between the trees and the bridge.
Grenville allowed the leaders to get within about three hundred and fifty yards, then his rifle vomited its deadly contents, and two Mormons, running one behind the other, bit the dust. With an angry cry the remainder pressed forward, intent on vengeance; but again and again, to their complete astonishment and utter consternation, did the unerring messengers from the bridge speed forth upon their fatal mission, and by the time the crowd had arrived within a hundred yards of Grenville’s position, seventeen men lay dead or dying upon the veldt, and he had still five shots left in his magazine. These were coolly but hastily despatched, and Grenville had the fierce gratification of knowing, in that supreme moment, that not a single cartridge had been thrown away—every bullet had had at least one deadly billet. Now, however, the Mormons commenced to use their guns, and though the bridge in some degree protected Grenville, still his head was exposed, and he could hear the musket balls whistling past him.
So close were his opponents now that he could distinctly see their faces, and his keen eye instantly detected a wavering movement upon their part; and realising that they ignorantly ascribed an unlimited number of shots to his strange and infernal weapon, he at once opened fire with his revolvers; and after two more men had fallen to the first three discharges, the attacking party broke up altogether, and simply scrambled into cover at top speed, whilst our hero—for such we may now fairly call him—heaved a sigh of relief, and proceeded with the utmost care to reload his rifle.
Then followed a desultory guerilla sort of warfare, the Mormons trying to creep into shooting range lying full length upon the grass, and this stratagem, owing to the number of dead bodies lying about, was comparatively easy work. Twice Grenville had narrow escapes of falling a victim to these crouching marksmen, one shot actually grazing his left ear and drawing blood; but not one of these individuals ever got a chance of a second shot, the list of killed and wounded soon totalling twenty-five, such difference was there between old-time guns and a modern engine of warfare placed in a single pair of cool and skilful hands.