He missed, and before he could pull the trigger a second time, the ex-steward had dived like a weasel into a clump of scrub and was gone.
Roy dashed up the bank in hot pursuit. The moment he showed himself a regular volley of rifle shots rang out, and spinning round he sprang back into the hollow.
'There's about twenty Turks coming hard up the next gully,' he panted. 'We've got to bunk like blazes if we want to save our skins.'
[CHAPTER VIII]
THE HUNTERS HUNTED
Ken was standing, looking half dazed. His rifle was on the ground, and he was holding his left arm with his right hand.
'Are you hurt, Ken?' asked Roy, and there was real concern in his voice. The two had known one another less than a week, yet each had come to respect and like the other.
'No. I'm not hit. The bullet struck the barrel of my rifle. It numbed my arm for the moment. I'm quite all right, but my rifle's done for, so far as firing goes. Rotten luck, losing Kemp.'
'Never mind Kemp,' said Roy, serious for once. 'These Turkish Johnnies are between us and home. And they're after us. It'll take us all our time to get clear. Which way are we to go?'
As he spoke a shout came from the next gully. It was Kemp's voice, and he was evidently calling his men up to pursue the two Britishers.
Ken glanced round quickly. He saw at once that it was out of the question to make straight back for their own lines. They would be cut off for a dead certainty. The two other alternatives were to make off to the right or to go straight back up the gully.