Smack! Another bullet lodged close by; but this time there was an abrupt, dull thud, followed by a heavy groan, while a commotion further up the hill told all too plainly of a human form writhing in agony.
'Habet!' muttered George. 'Whatever is all the rumpus about? Some settlers, perhaps, have heard of our arrival and come out to stop us. What clever beggars these Maoris are at taking cover! I could not see a sign of one when I was up.' He twisted his head and stared down into the valley; but, seeing nothing for his pains, peered round the back of his sheltering rock.
There lay Winata Pakaro, famous fighting chief, his lips set in a grin of hate, his eyes glittering with the light of battle, his long hair stirred by the breeze as the locks of the Furies by their writhing snakes. Suddenly his rifle sprang to his shoulder, and George, forgetful of his own danger, lifted his head by ever so little over the rock to watch the effect of the shot.
In a moment the explosion roared in his ear; but there was no one to be seen in the valley. Only, almost simultaneously with the report of Winata's rifle, the gloom of the distant scrub was rent by a vivid flash, and George ducked again as the bullet came singing up to smash the stock of the Maori's gun and glance off up the hill.
'Na!' grunted the disgusted Winata Pakaro, and called softly to a comrade, who glided out of the bushes, not three feet from George, who, till then, had not the slightest idea that any one lay there. Winata explained his wants, and the other, whose business it was to keep in touch with the firing-line, crawled off as a fourth bullet grazed Pakaro's shoulder.
The hardy savage merely grunted, took another rifle from the hand of his comrade, and stretched himself out as before.
A crash, a groan, and, as the report of a fifth shot came from the valley, the powder-monkey, so to call him, fell upon his face, and lay still with a hole in his head. He had imitated George in peering over the rock, and now there he was—dead.
'I know only one man who can shoot like this,' thought George,' and he must be a good bit east of here.' Another bullet knocked fragments from the top of the rock. 'He has got our range to a nicety. I wish he would turn his polite attention to some other part of the hill. Ah! I thought so. It is getting too hot here.' For with the sound of the last shot Winata Pakaro glided away, giving a quick call to George to follow cautiously.
Ten minutes later a couple of Maoris stood as if by magic at his side, wound each an arm through his own, and, with their rifles at the trail, set off with him at a terrific pace down the hill.
Difficult as it was, George managed to snatch a fleeting glance or two as he tore along between his guards. On this side the Maoris were running at top speed, their objective being another hill, a natural fortress, which rose out of the valley a mile or so away. On that side, a mob of whites and friendly Maoris, far inferior in number to Te Karearea's force, were racing desperately towards the same hill, but wasting their breath in shouts and yells. But so far it was anybody's race.