Creeping round through the woods, they managed to get into McCoy’s house by a back window, unobserved. Menalee then ran down to the garden, as if in a state of great excitement.
“Oh, Missr McCoy, Timoa and Nehow hab come down from mountain, an’ is robbin’ you house!”
The bait took. McCoy ran up to his house. As soon as he reached the door there was a volley from within, but McCoy remained untouched.
Seeing this, and, no doubt, supposing that he must be badly wounded, Menalee, who had followed him, seized him from behind. But McCoy, being the stronger man, twisted himself suddenly round, grasped Menalee by the waist with both hands, and flung him headlong into a neighbouring pig-sty. He then turned and ran back to his garden to warn Mills.
“Run for it, Mills,” he cried; “run and take to the bush. All the black scoundrels have united to murder us.”
He set the example by at once disappearing in the thick bush. But Mills did not believe him. He and Menalee had always been good friends, and he seemed to think it impossible that they would kill him. He hesitated, and the hesitation cost him his life, for next moment a bullet laid him low.
Meanwhile McCoy ran to warn Christian. Reaching his garden, he found him there, dead, with the tranquil smile still on his cold lips, and the now glazed eyes still gazing upwards. One glance sufficed. He turned and ran back to Christian’s house to tell his wife what he had seen, but the poor woman was sick in bed at the time and could not move. Running then to Quintal’s garden, he found him alive, but quite ignorant of what was going on.
“They seem to be wastin’ a deal of powder to-day,” he growled, without raising himself, as McCoy came up; “but—hallo! you’re blowing hard. What’s wrong?”
As soon as he heard the terrible story he ran to his wife, who chanced to be sitting near the edge of his garden.
“Up, old girl,” he cried, “your nigger countrymen are murderin’ us all. If you want to see any of us escape you’d better go and warn ’em. I shall look after number one.”