With some difficulty, Jack Lovat and his two companions made tracks for the kopje overlooking his father's farm, but long before the summit over which they meant to pass on their hands and knees was reached, Morton was bowled over by a bullet, and but for the friendly protection of a shoulder-strap buckle, would undoubtedly have been killed. As it was, the missile, after being deflected by the buckle, lodged in the muscles of his upper right arm, and rendered that member useless.
Although in great pain, with blood trickling from the unstanched wound, the New Zealander, forming the rear-guard, turned his face in the direction of the Kopje Farm, and with tightened lips moved forward towards the summit.
They had not proceeded more than a hundred paces when the scout stumbled and fell.
The hardy frame of the New Zealander, stricken as he was, could not stand the strain, and he tumbled over in a dead faint.
"This is a predicament, Pete," said Jack, as he bent over the prostrate figure. "We must, however, get to some place of shelter;" and the brave lad looked around him.
A natural cave opened its yawning mouth about fifty yards away, and towards its friendly shelter Pete and Jack managed to drag their still unconscious ally.
The firing had ceased, but Jack had the conviction they were still being watched by the enemy.
The cave was the mouth of a depression such as is commonly seen among the kopjes of South Africa, and with some difficulty, for Jack's arm was powerless, the wounded trooper was carried inside. Morton soon regained consciousness, but his mind was clouded, and he talked somewhat incoherently.
"Keep the beggars off, my lad," he said to Jack. "This confounded wound has disabled me."
Our hero asked for the loan of Morton's glasses, and creeping to the mouth of the cave, glanced along the donga.