Jack had already guessed as much. He knew it first from the vigorous way the six riders were urging their tired mounts on. Then again he could see how they leaned forward in their saddles, and turned anxious looks over their shoulders.
Sure enough there burst into view a second detachment of riders, whose animals seemed in better condition for hard service than those of the fleeing Germans.
These men were garbed in the khaki of British soldiers. They carried guns which they evidently knew well how to make good use of even when riding at headlong speed.
Jack guessed the very second he saw them ride that those men had not picked up their knowledge of horsemanship from following the hounds after the fox in Old Surrey, and wearing red coats.
Every one of them had been recruited either from the wilds of South Africa, the cattle ranges of Canada, or else had served among the Northwest Mounted Police of the Dominion.
Jack felt like giving a yell of recognition, it seemed so much like meeting old friends again. He did nothing of the sort, however, but simply reached out a hand to draw Amos further back, because he knew there was no need of attracting the attention of the hard-pressed and desperate Uhlans, who might take a notion to send a few bullets their way.
“What if they stop here and try to make a fort out of the house?” demanded Amos, as though he thought he detected a veering to one side on the part of the fugitives.
“No danger of that,” his chum hurriedly assured him, “they’re too hot-pressed to halt. There, see them turn in the saddle and shoot back.”
“Nothing doing, though,” announced Amos; “every man jack of the Allies dodged the lead. And now they’re going to return the fire. Whew! that was a corking volley, Jack.”
“There goes one poor chap!” cried the Western boy; “he got his straight.”