Chapter 14 | Man-hunting | A Dash From Diamond City

Whatsoever this may have been, the sudden appearance of the two fresh horsemen decided the course of some thirty or forty, who stood about for a few moments staring wonderingly at the pair flying down the descent, before mounting in some cases, in others seizing their rifles and flinging themselves upon the ground to load rapidly and take aim.

“Mind how you go, Noll!” shouted Ingleborough. “A fall means being taken prisoner now!”

He had hardly shouted the words before the bullets came buzzing about their ears like bees after disturbers on a hot swarming day in old England.

“Take care!” cried West excitedly. “It will be a long chase; so don’t press your nag too hard. Lie down on your horse’s neck; the bullets are coming more and more, and we shan’t be safe for another mile.”

“Bah! It’s all nonsense about their marksmanship,” cried Ingleborough, who seemed to be suffering from a peculiar kind of elation in which there was no feeling of fear. “Let them shoot! We’re end on to them, and have a clear course! They’re trained to shoot springbok, I suppose, when they get a chance; but they haven’t had much experience of galloping men. Fire away, you cowardly brutes!” he roared, as if he fancied that the enemy could hear him. “I don’t believe you could hit a runaway railway truck or a cantering furniture-van, let alone a horse with a man on its back.”

“Ah!” cried West, at that moment, as he turned from looking back and snatched off his broad-brimmed hat.

“Noll, boy, don’t say you’re hit!” cried Ingleborough passionately.

“No,” said West, drawing his breath with a peculiar sound. “I’ve escaped; but I thought I’d got it! I felt as if my hat was being snatched off, and something touched my ear.”

“Turn your head this way!” said Ingleborough huskily.

“Wait a moment!” replied West, who had passed his hat into his rein hand, to afterwards clap his right to his head and draw it away.

“First blood to them!” he said, with a mocking laugh.

“Here, we must ease up and let me bandage it,” said Ingleborough.

“No, thanks: that’s a likely tale with the bullets flying like this! Keep on, man; we’ve got a fair start! Let’s get past those trees forward yonder; they’ll shelter us a bit!”

“But your wound, my lad?”

“They’ve only nicked the edge of my ear. It will stop bleeding of itself. There’s nothing to mind!”

Ingleborough watched him eagerly as he spoke, and seeing for himself that there was only a feeble trickle of blood from the cut ear, he pressed on in the required direction.

“Give me warning,” he cried, “if you feel faint, and we’ll pull up, dismount, and cover ourselves with our horses while we try what practice we can make if they come on.”

“If they come on!” said West bitterly. “Look for yourself; they’re already coming!”

Ingleborough turned his head sharply, to see that a line of galloping men had just been launched from the Boer laager to the right and left, and were streaming in single file down the slope, leaving ample room between them for their dismounted companions to keep up a steady fire upon the fugitives.

“That’s their game, is it?” said Ingleborough, between his teeth. “Very well, then, we must make a race of it and see what our picked ponies can do.”

“That’s right!” cried West. “Let’s open out a little!”

“Right, and give them less to aim at! The bullets are flying wildly now. Ten yards apart will do.”

They separated to about this distance, and at a word from West each nipped his pony’s flanks with his knees and rose a little in the stirrups, with the result that the wiry little animals stretched out greyhound fashion and flew over the veldt as if thoroughly enjoying the gallop.

“Steady! steady!” shouted West, at the end of ten minutes. “We’re leaving the brutes well behind, and the bullets are getting scarce. Don’t let’s worry the brave little nags! With a start like this we can leave the Boers well behind.”

Ingleborough nodded after a glance backward and followed his companion’s example, drawing rein so that their steeds settled down into a hand-gallop, still leaving their pursuers farther behind. The ground was now perfectly level, stretching for three or four miles without an obstacle, and then the horizon line was broken by one of the many kopjes of the country, one which lay right in their line of flight.

“What about that?” said West. “Shall we make for it and get into shelter ready for using our rifles?”

“I don’t like it!” replied Ingleborough. “There might be another party there, and then it would be like galloping into another hornets’ nest.”

“I don’t like it either,” said West; “but we must think of our horses, and by the time we get there half of this pursuing lot will have tailed off, while I don’t believe the rest will come on if we shoot pretty true from behind some rock.”

“That’s right!” said Ingleborough. “We mustn’t let them keep us on the run, for the horses’ sake.”

“Look out!” said West, in warning tones.

“What is it?”

“They’re pulling up and dismounting,” replied West. “Here come the bullets again.”

For as he spoke the buzzing, whizzing notes of danger overhead, which had for some minutes ceased, began to utter their warnings again, but in a very irregular way, which brought forth the remark from Ingleborough that their enemies’ hands were unsteady from their sharp ride.

“The more need then for us to get into a sheltered place where we can rest a few minutes before they can come up,” said West. “Let’s have another sharp gallop and get well among the rocks: it will be riding out of range and getting more in advance before they mount again.”

“Right, general!” cried Ingleborough banteringly; and once more they tore over the veldt, pursued only by the bullets, for the following Boers had dismounted to a man.

“Keep a little wider,” said West, laughing outright at his companion’s word “general.”

“Don’t let’s give them a chance by riding so close together!”

“Right! Fine manoeuvre!” replied Ingleborough; and they went on towards the kopje at full speed, both feeling a wild kind of exhilaration as the wind rushed by their cheeks, and the plucky little horses stretched out more and more as if enjoying the race as much as their riders.

Strange terms “exhilaration” and “enjoying,” but none the less true. For there was no feeling of dread, even though the bullets kept on whizzing by them to right, to left, in front, far behind; now high overhead, and more often striking up the dust and ricochetting into space, to fall neither knew where. Every leaden messenger, it it reached its mark, meant a wound; many would have resulted in death had they struck the fugitives. But the excitement made the rush one wild gratification, combined with a kind of certainty that they would escape scot-free; and they laughed aloud, shouting words of encouragement to their ponies and cries of defiance and derision at the unsuccessful riflemen.

“Why, we could do better ourselves, Noll!” cried Ingleborough. “So these are your puffed-up Boers whom writers have put in their books and praised so effusively! My word, what a lot of gammon has been written about rifle-shooting! I believe that Cooper’s Deerslayer with his old-fashioned rifle was a duffer after all, and the wonderful shots of the trappers all bluff.”

“Perhaps so!” shouted West, rather breathlessly; “but these fellows can shoot!”

“Not a bit!”

“Well, my ear has stopped bleeding; but it smarts as if someone was trying to saw into the edge.”

“Never mind; it’s only gristle!” said Ingleborough.

“I don’t mind, but if the Boer who fired that bullet had only held his rifle a hair’s breadth more to the left the scrap of lead would have gone into my skull.”

“Of course; but then he did not hold his rifle a hair’s breadth more to the left. By jingo!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t quite know yet. It feels quite numb and free from pain. I don’t think I’m hit. I half fancy the poor pony has it, for he gave a tremendous start. All right; keep on! The bullet struck my rolled-up blanket, and it has gone into the saddle. I can feel the little hole.”

“What a narrow escape!” cried West anxiously. “Come, you must own that they can shoot straight! If that bullet had gone a trifle higher it would have gone through your loins.”

“To be sure! and a little higher still, through between my shoulders; a trifle more, through the back of my head; and again a trifle more, and it would have gone above me. As it is, there’s a hole in my saddle, and I’m all right.”

“Thank Heaven!” cried West.

“I did,” said Ingleborough, “but in a quiet way! Yes, lad, they can shoot; but it’s a hard mark to hit—a galloping man end on. They’d be better if we were going at right angles to the shot!”

“Now then, another five minutes, and we shall be beyond the range of their rifles.”

“And in another you had better give the word to slacken speed, for the ground will be getting rough. Why not give it now? They’ve ceased firing.”

“Ease down then to a gentle canter,” cried West, in reply, and their panting steeds were checked so that for the last mile of their retreat they progressed at an easy ambling pace which enabled the horses to recover their wind, while the precipitous sides of the eminence in front grew clearer to the eye and gave ample proof of being able to furnish nooks which would afford them and their horses security, while enabling the friends a good opportunity for returning the compliment to the Boers as far as bullets were concerned.

West said something to this effect after taking his glass from where it was slung and looking back, to see that the enemy was remounting and continuing the pursuit.

“Not they!” replied Ingleborough. “They’re too fond of whole skins to run risks! They’ll lie down in holes and corners to fire at us, but they will not attack us if we are well in cover, and they find we can hold our rifles straight.”

“Then we must!” said West quietly. “Only we shall want a bit of rest first, for my nerves are all of a quiver, and the blood feels as if it was jumping in my veins.”

“Come along then! We’ll soon find a place where we can lie down behind the stones! The sooner the better too, for I’m beginning to feel rather murderous.”

“Murderous!” cried West.

“Yes: don’t you? I’m not going to be shot at for nothing! Look here, Nolly, my lad, life’s very sweet, and I value mine. I’m peaceably disposed enough, but these brutes have invaded our country, and you’ve had proof that they are trying their level best to make us food for the crows. Under the circumstances don’t you think it’s time for the lambs—meaning us—to turn upon the butchers—meaning the Boers—and let them feed the crows instead?”

“Don’t talk in poetical metaphors, Ingle,” said West, with a grim smile. “If it comes to the point, we’ll make our rifles speak in a way that will keep the enemy from stopping to hear the end of what they have to say.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Ingleborough; “who’s talking metaphorically now?”

“I’ve done,” said West. “Walk!” he cried loudly, and they drew rein, to let the ponies pick their way up the commencement of a slope dotted with small stones, while but a short distance farther on the front of the castle-like kopje was gashed with little gorges and ravines, offering plenty of places where horses and men might hide.

“Rather awkward if we were to find that there were some more of the enemy here!” said West, as the nature of the ground forced him to follow his companion, instead of their riding abreast.

He had hardly spoken when it was as if a trumpet had rung out a challenge from one of the little gorges in front, and West answered by shouting: “Right-about face!” and leading the way back. It was no trumpet, but the loud neigh of a Boer horse, while shot after shot was fired as they galloped away, fortunately being able to shelter themselves from the fire by striking off to the right as soon as they were clear of the stones, the higher ones proving their salvation, being in the way of the enemy’s aim.

“Out of the frying-pan into the fire!” cried Ingleborough; “and the fire’s going to be hotter than the pan.”

“Yes,” cried West. “Give them their head! Gallop right for the river now.”