At the warning cry Hubert swung half round, turning his broad breast to the foe and shielding his unconscious burden as best he might. The wild warrior drew himself back for an instant, and then—like a cloth-yard shaft from a strong yew bow—the thin, dark, wavering missile sped only too truly. Deeply, venomously it pierced the mighty chest, beneath which throbbed the true and fearless heart of Hubert Warleigh. Freeing one hand, he broke the spear-shaft across like a reed-stalk, and without stay or stagger strode forward with his burden.
As the last battle scene was enacted, the dawn light struggled through a misty cloud-rack, and permitted clearer view of the tragedy to the rank and file of the expedition.
When the deadly missile struck their leader, a wild shout broke from the whites, and a charge in line was made towards the stone gunya, immediately in the rear of which the main body of the natives had collected for a desperate stand.
As if in answer, a strange, unnatural cry, half human only, burst upon their ears. They turned to behold a singular spectacle. Carried away by his exultation at the triumph of his aim and his revenge upon the foeman who had baulked him of his prey, the champion of a primeval race lingered ere he turned to flight in the direction of his companions.
He was too late. The bandogs of destiny were upon him, grim, merciless, with red glaring eyes and gleaming fangs. In his attention to his spear he had forgotten to pick up his nullah-nullah (or club), with which he would have been a match for any canine foe. A few frantic bounds were made by the doomed quarry as the eager dogs looked wolfishly up into his terror-stricken countenance. Another step, and the red dog, springing suddenly, seized his throat with unrelaxing grip, while Spanker’s sharp tusks sank into his flank, tearing at the quivering flesh as he fell heavily upon the earth.
‘Whoo-whoop, boys! Whoop!’ screamed old Tom, breathless and excited to the blood-madness of the Berserker. ‘That’s the talk. Worry, worry, worry! good dogs, good dogs! At him Spanker, boy, ye’re blood up to the eyes. Stick to him, Smoker, throttle him like a dingo. How the eyes of him rolls. Mercy be hanged!’ he replied in answer to the protest of one of the men. ‘What mercy did he show to Mr. Hubert, and him helpless, with that gossoon in his arms? Maybe ye didn’t think of the harm ye were doing, ye black snake that ye are,’ he continued, apostrophising the writhing form, which the ruthless hounds dragged to and fro with the ferocity of their kind; the brindle dog revelling in the dreadful banquet, wherein his head was ever and anon plunged to the glaring eyes, while the red hound held his fell grip upon the lacerated throat.
‘Maybe it’s kind father to ye to dhrive yer spear through any mortial craychur that belongs to a strange thribe, white or black. There’s more like ye, that’s had betther tachin’, so I’ll give ye a riddance out of yer misery. And it’s more than ye’d do for me av ye had me lyin’ there under the fut of ye.’
With this closing sentiment, nearer to recognition of a sable brother than he had ever been known to exhibit, the old stock-rider raised his gun. ‘Come off, ye divils! d’ye hear me, now?’ he said, striking the brindle dog heavily with his gun, who then only drew off, licking his gory lips and looking greedily at the bleeding form; while the red dog, more obedient or less fell of nature, relinquished his hold at the first summons.
‘Ye’ve had yer punishment, I’ll go bail, in this world, whatever happens in the next,’ said the old man grimly, as he pulled the trigger of his piece in a matter-of-fact manner. The charge passed through the skull of the mangled wretch, who, leaping from the earth and throwing out his arms in the death agony, fell on his face with a crash.
‘There’s an ind of ye,’ said the ruthless elder. ‘The blood of a betther man will be cowld enough before the day’s out. Come away, dogs, ye’ve had divarshion enough for one huntin’. Sure, they’re far away—the black imps of Satan,’ he said, as he listened intently to a distant chorus of wailing cries. ‘It’s time to get the camp in order. I wonder when we’ll git thim bullocks agin?’