"What do the bounders mean by taking pot-shots at me?" he growled; but the next instant he realised that he was crossing the danger zone, in which the bullets of the Berbers—who frequently aimed too high—were coming to earth a good eight hundred yards in the rear of the French lines.
Prudence suggested that Devereux should take cover behind some friendly rock and watch developments, but there was Craddock still making his way onwards towards the fringe of skirmishers. Where the Moonshine was the Intelligence must surely be.
The American had reduced the pace of his horse almost to a walk—a circumstance that Devereux thought remarkable if not foolhardy. As Devereux drew nearer he saw that Craddock's mount was limping badly, with a bullet graze on its fetlock; but ere the young Englishman could hail the other the horse suddenly reared, then, falling to the ground with a dull thud, pitched its rider over its mane.
By the time the Intelligence special had joined the American, Craddock regained his feet and ruefully contemplated his lifeless steed.
"Hurt?" asked Devereux, laconically.
"Hurt? As dead as a door-nail, I guess. A hundred and twenty dollars gone bust!"
"But yourself?"
"No; but I guess I'm a fool to try that sort of game, sonny. Ought to have taken cover straight away. It's getting a bit thick. Here, turn your precious animal loose, and let's lie low over there."
But Devereux was loth to leave his patient steed in the open. Nevertheless he dismounted and led the ass to the shelter of a few palms in the rock-enclosed depression. For nearly a quarter of an hour the two correspondents watched the skirmish, till the Moorish fire began to slacken, and the French, by alternate rushes by companies, began to press home the attack.
"Now's our chance!" exclaimed Craddock, replacing his field-glasses and shutting the case with an emphatic snap. "We'll make for the rear of those fellows on the right flank."