"Ride on for all you're worth!" shouted Colin, as he saw Desmond was reining in and unslinging his rifle. "I'm all right."
"Are you?" called Tiny in reply. "Look ahead!"
The chums were now a good hundred yards beyond the ambush, but the warriors were running swiftly in pursuit. Sinclair knew that they hadn't the slightest chance of outpacing two fairly swift horses, so why did they persist in following?
The answer was soon apparent. Desmond knew it already, for at less than a quarter of a mile ahead and stretching out in a far-flung semi-circle, were at least a hundred of Sibenga's warriors, and with them the chief himself, accompanied by the witch doctor in full regalia.
Both lads realised that they were in a desperately tight corner. Something had to be done, and that quickly. To remain where they were meant death under the keen blades of the assegais; to get away meant dashing through the cordon of armed warriors.
With the exception of their rifles, Colin and Desmond were unarmed, and a sporting magazine rifle is an awkward weapon to use while mounted. But it was infinitely better than nothing at all. Holding their rifles by the small of the butt and opening the cut-out of the magazine, the trapped chums set spurs to their horses and dashed forward to where it seemed the line was most lightly held.
Nobly Brimstone and Treacle responded to the call. It was touch-and-go. Already Sibenga's warriors, guessing the desperate white men's plan, began to bunch together to intercept them.
Holding the reins lightly with their left, and keeping their rifles obliquely across the pommel of the saddle, Colin and Desmond tore towards the bronzed line of natives. A few throwing spears flew towards them. Shields were brandished in the hope that the commotion would scare the horses.
Then both rifles spoke. It was impossible to take aim, but the moral effect told. In an instant the lads were dashing between the warriors. Colin had a momentary vision of bringing the brass-bound butt of his rifle violently against the face of a ferocious-looking fellow and feeling the latter's throwing-spear graze his ribs.
Desmond, firing with the muzzle of his rifle almost touching a broad-shouldered warrior, had only just time to raise the still-smoking weapon to guard a blow from a kerrie aimed by the man even as the bullet struck him fairly in the chest.