The four men shot rapidly and well, the heavy lead bullets stopping the headlong rush far more effectively than did the nickel rifle ammunition.
Once again the attack failed, the savages drawing off and leaving at least fifty of their number dead or wounded on the field. Not one of the enemy had got within twenty yards of the death-dealing weapons of the white men.
"Now, boss," gasped Blight, as he bound a discoloured silk handkerchief round a spear-scratch on his left wrist. "Shall we make a bolt for it? We can fight our way to the shore."
Mr. McKay pointed to the still unconscious Quexo.
"Put a bullet through his head. He won't feel it. Why should we chuck away our chance for a wounded nigger?"
"Look here, Mr. Blight, I've told you before you can go if you want to. Here are two revolvers you can take; there's a good chance now, so go, and good luck to you! I must stay here—what do you say, lads?"
Terence and Andy grimly signified their intention of remaining with their stricken comrade.
Blight saw there was a chance, but, in his opinion, far from a good one.
Although the spot the little band had chosen for their stand was within a hundred yards of the sea, to return to where the canoes had landed their armed contents was at least a quarter of a mile distant.
Then, again, directly he left cover and began to run, a hundred natives would join in the pursuit. Even could he manage to fight his way through the ring and outstrip his pursuers, there was a long swim in front of him.