A Galahad of the Creeks; The Widow Lamport

by S. Levett Yeats

The sky was one sheet of light, for the village had been fired in several places, and the houses blazed up like touchwood. Long forks of flame from the mission school sprang up to the sky, and a dense cloud of smoke rolled westward with the breeze. Still the Winchester kept speaking, and every shot gave the rescue party hope, for they knew that Smalley was selling his life dearly.

"We divide here into two parties," said Phipson as they landed. "You, inspector, take six men with you, and make for the boats. We will drive on to you. By God," he added, pulling his revolver out, "I rather think we're only just in time!"

Serferez needed no second bidding, but was already off, and Jackson and his companion marched rapidly forward.

"We'll give them a volley from here," said Phipson as they reached the skirts of the clearing round the little mission school, about which the firing was concentrated. "By Jove! they're going to batter down the door. Steady, men! Fire!" The crackling of the volley was followed by a cheer, and in a moment the police had rushed forward and were engaged hand to hand with the dacoits. Some one sprang straight at Jackson, but his hand seemed to lift itself up of its own accord, and a second after a huddled mass lay before the smoking barrel of his revolver. The issue was not one moment in doubt, and in a few seconds the dacoits were heading straight for their boats. Here they were intercepted by Serferez and his party, who gave them a warm reception. Three or four of the dacoits, however, among whom was the Boh, secured a boat and rowed off for their lives.

"Follow them!" shouted Jackson, springing into the snake boat; "not a man must escape!" Phipson and a few others took another boat, and there was a hot pursuit. The dacoits realized, however, that it was no use, and, evidently resolving to die fighting, ran their boat ashore on a small island near the middle of the river and took to the thickets, from which they began a smart fire.

"Go behind, and take them on the rear," called out Jackson to his companion. Almost as the words were spoken Phipson's boat turned to the left and was round the head of the little island.

"Sit down, sahib; don't stand up--we are quite close to them now," said the naick of police, who was in Jackson's boat. Peregrine laughed, and the next moment the naick uttered a cry of horror, for a red tongue of flame shot out of the covert, and Jackson, flinging his hands up, fell forward on his face with a gasping sob.

With a yell of rage the police grounded their boat and rushed into the jungle. There was but half an acre of ground, and Bullen, son of Bishen, Sikh from the Doab, had gone Berseker.

As the men landed the dacoits made for the opposite side of the little island, but to their dismay found Phipson there. With a curse Bah Hmoay darted back into the cover, followed in hot haste by Phipson. And here in the uncertain light, where the jungle was so tangled that there was barely room to use a sword, there was a short but desperate fight. "Come on, Jackson, we have the lot here! Where on earth are you?" shouted Phipson as his revolver barked out like a snapping pup, and one of the dacoits fell dead, and another, staggering backward, was finished by a policeman with his dah. "Where are you, Jackson?" called out Phipson again.

"Jackson is in hell--where you will follow him!" and the Boh sprang at Phipson like a panther. A projecting branch saved him from the downward sweep of the long dah, the revolver snapped out again, and the next moment they had grappled each other by the throat.