“Oh, put your flaming pistol back into its pouch, you funky owl,” snarled Barney Green, “they both dropped at the first time, as I told you. Gerrard fell on to the fire, and you'll find him cooking there, and that both of 'em are as full of holes as a cullender. We've wasted a hundred cartridges for nothing, but I daresay we'll get some more. He had a forty-four Winchester, and the nigger a Snider.”
A match was struck, and the two motionless watchers saw Cheyne go to a ti-tree, which grew on the edge of the large pool, tear off the outer thin and wet bark, and then make a torch of the dry part, which lit easily. Pinkerton waved it to and fro for a few moments, and then held it up. It burst into flame.
“Now, Tommy, quick! Take the big man,” and as Gerrard spoke he covered Green.
The two rifles rang out, and Forreste and the Jew fell. Pinkerton dropped the torch and tried to draw his revolver, but a second shot from Gerrard broke his leg, and he too dropped. Cheyne sprang off towards the pool, leapt in, and swam across to where their horses were hidden. Tommy, with all the lust of slaughter upon him, tomahawk in hand, ran round the pool to intercept him on the other side.
“Let him go, Tommy, let him go!” shouted Gerrard, who was now feeling faint from loss of blood. “Come back, come back!” and as he spoke, Pinkerton, who could see him, began firing at him.
The black boy obeyed just as Gerrard sank back upon the ground. The still blazing torch, however, revealed his prone figure to the American, who, rising upon one knee, reloaded his revolver. Then Tommy leapt at him, raised his tomahawk, and clove his head in twain.
“Did he hit you, boss?” he cried, as, still holding the ensanguined weapon in his hand, he darted to his master.
“No, Tommy, I'm all right, but bingie mine feel sick.{*} Get water for me, Tommy.”
* “I feel faint”
The black boy ran down to the waterhole, filled his cabbage-tree hat with water, and Gerrard drank.