"Are you hurt?" he shouted.
"Steady, Mal, my boy," came his father's voice in reply. "Keep cool. Now try again. One at a time!"
Malcolm put forth all the might of his strong young back, and slowly the bucket came to the surface, this time with his father alone.
"The old nig broke his neck," were the first words he said. "Come, get the others out."
McFEE AND MALCOLM GRASPED THE WINCH HANDLE.
At this moment, nearer than before, sounded the strange cry. McFee grasped the winch handle with his son, and they had wound Gifford nearly to the top, when Malcolm heard a noise and looked up. Not thirty feet away, parting the bushes, stood a strange figure. Over the top of a long shield peered an excited black face, and behind it another. The gleam of a broad spear-head and the tossing of a headdress farther back showed that there were more to come.
So paralyzed were the natives by astonishment at what they saw that they stood there for a moment like ebony statues. McFee saw his opportunity.
"Pull hard, boy," he said. "This affair has gone past treating;" and he stooped quickly and picked up the Martini rifle from the ground. The shot rang out at once, and the nearest two figures lunged forward, for the ball had passed through both of them.
Gifford was now swarming up the rope faster than Malcolm could raise the bucket. A wild cry rang through the woods, but dismayed by the death of the foremost two, the rest of the Bangwalis had taken to their heels.