"Down dere, baas," answered the Kaffir. "I saw de heads ob two Boers peep ober, about five hundred yards away. I am sure dey must——"
Pete's answer was prematurely finished, for the "pip-pop" of half a dozen Mausers rang out, and the next moment Jack Lovat, with blanched face, was lying on the ground, and a stream of blood trickled down the left sleeve of his jacket. Jack's rifle slipped from his grasp, and but for the safety catch, a bullet would probably have whizzed near Morton; for the barrel rested on a fragment of rock, and the New Zealander was directly in the line of fire.
The latter bent over Jack, who was writhing with pain. It was only the work of a moment for Morton to pick up his clasp knife and rip open a seam of the garment.
Jack, although a brave lad, winced, while the trooper examined the wound.
"Only a flesh hurt," said Morton; "lucky, though!" and swiftly applying the field dressing, he bound up the injured limb.
Another peculiar whistle heralded the approach of a shower of bullets fired by unseen marksmen.
"I guess we are in a tight hole now," soliloquised Morton. "We'll have to get a place of shelter somehow. Can you manage to walk, my lad?" addressing Jack. But our hero was already on his feet.
"I'm all right now," answered Jack, although he looked far from being in that desirable state.
"We must get down to the donga as quickly as possible; there will be more shelter. I'll carry you, Jack."
"No, no!" said Jack. "I can manage to walk. You might take my rifle, please, for my arm seems paralysed."