Once clear of Gandela, Lamont had subsided into moody silence. Only the
eager glow in his eyes, as he sent his horse along at a brisk pace at
the head of his troop, told how his thoughts were working. At present
they held but two considerations--a vivid picture of the horror he had
witnessed and the torturing fear lest he should be too late to prevent a
repetition of it. No, that contingency would not bear contemplation,
and all unconsciously he urged his horse on to greater speed, till at
last something of a murmur arose from one or two of his followers.
"We shall bust our horses if we stretch them out like this at the
start."
He looked round.
"Oh no, we shan't. And every moment may make all the difference."
What was it that rendered his every thought a keen torture? Had it been
a case of rescuing from horrible danger any other two women in the
township, would he have been so eager? Yes, he would. He could safely
say that. But he would not have suffered from this overweighting,
distracting apprehension begotten of the knowledge that one of these two
was Clare Vidal.
But if his chief for the time being was silent, the same could not be
said of Peters. For Peters was giving a graphic account of all that had
befallen, and especially was he graphic on the barbarous massacre of the
Tewson family. His object was to inflame the minds of these men, to
work them up to a very fever-heat of desire for revenge; thus would each
man feel endowed with the strength and bravery of six, and they would
need it too, for after all their force was a puny one--yes, a very puny
one, considering the overwhelming odds they would almost certainly have
to encounter.
They made Langrishe's Store in fine time, but--where was Langrishe? No
answer was returned to their loud, impatient hail. He could not be
away, for the door was half open. Some opined that he was probably
drunk, but to two there, at any rate, that silence bore an ominous
similarity to that which had signalled their approach to another
homestead only yesterday morning. The solution was somewhat startling.
From the partly open door half a dozen armed savages shot forth, and
darted for the nearest bush with inconceivable swiftness.
But not one of them was destined to reach it. A perfect howl of rage
went up from the spectators, and waiting for no word of command a dozen
horsemen were on the heels of the fugitives, who were shot down to a
man. It was all over in a moment.
"Loosen girths everyone and water the horses while we investigate,"
ordered Lamont. "No time to off-saddle."
It was even as they had dreaded. Lying behind the counter of his store
was the body of poor Langrishe, the skull battered in, the clothing
riddled with assegai cuts, but the body was still quite warm. Bales and
cases, and goods of every description, were piled and heaped about in
the last degree of confusion. The murderers had obviously been too busy
looting to hear the approach of the party and so secure their own safety
in time. The wrath of the latter found vent in bitter curses, and
blood-curdling promises of vengeance upon the whole Matabele race.
But the ride had been a forced and a hot one, eke a dusty one and a dry.
One of the men came forward.
"Captain," he said, with a glance at the bar shelves, "some of us are
thinking that while the horses are resting a tot all round wouldn't hurt
us any. Might buck us up a bit, and it's mortal dry."
"Yes; that's right," said Lamont. "But--only one, mind. We mustn't
overdo it, for we shall have all our work cut out for us."
The said tot having been served out to all hands, and the party having
requisitioned some of poor Langrishe's biscuit in case of accidents--for
they had set forth none too well provisioned--the body of the
unfortunate storekeeper was left locked up within his own house. Girths
were tightened, and the road was resumed.
The fresh spoor of the mule-waggon and the police horses was plain
enough in the dry, powdery road, but the rapidity of their pace
underwent no diminution. But, like those they followed, they were
disgusted to find Skrine's Store shut up and deserted. Equally, with
those they followed, they did not discover the remains of the luckless
Skrine and his unknown companions, lying murdered in the bush.
Again girths were loosened for a bare five minutes, and again they
cantered forward. And now hopes began to rise. They had covered about
half the stage to the Kezane Store. It was late in the afternoon, and
Fullerton's party would be sure to sleep there. They might have to
stand a siege there, but that was safety itself compared with being
attacked in the open. Then, just as this hope had become almost a
certainty, there occurred that which brought a quick exclamation to
every mouth. Right ahead on the smooth still air, distant and muffled
came the dull rattle of a volley.
"Great Jupiter! they're attacked," cried Lamont, putting his horse to a
gallop. "Come on, Peters. Come on everybody. For God's sake, put your
best foot forward!"
No need was there for this exhortation. Tingling with excitement every
man was sending his steed along for all he knew how--those who were the
most indifferently mounted slashing and spurring and cursing. And if
any additional stimulant were needed the sound of further firing in
front went far to supply it.
"It won't be far beyond here," yelled Peters, as they tore through the
entrance to the bushy valley, where the fight at close quarters had
first commenced. And, even as he spoke, more shots rang out, this time
very near indeed, and with them mingled the roars and hisses of the
attacking Matabele. Only a bend in the road hid from them the scene of
action.
"Come on, boys!" shouted Lamont, half turning in his saddle. "You'll
know what to do when you see what's going on."
A minute later, and they did see, and what they saw was this. The
waggon was at a standstill. The two leading mules were down--one
motionless, the other struggling and kicking frantically. Of the police
escort half had been killed, and the remnant, now dismounted, were
standing, back to the waggon on either side, with revolver pointed,
facing a swarm of dark leaping figures, closing in more and more,
uttering their vibrating war-hiss, yet still not quite liking to face
those deadly revolvers.
"Charge!" shouted Lamont. "Divide. Half of us each side."
With a wild, roaring cheer the men spurred forward. The assailants did
not wait. Uttering loud cries of warning and dismay they fled
helter-skelter for more secure cover, and not all reached it, for the
irresistible impetus of their charge had carried the rescuers right in
among the discomfited Matabele, whom they shot down right and left,
well-nigh at point-blank.
"Quick, some of you cut loose those mules," ordered Lamont. "Steele,
you're a good man at that sort of thing. Three, all told, will be
enough."
In a trice the two wounded leaders were cut loose, the one still kicking
being given its quietus. Wyndham, the while, kept to his business as
driver with an unswerving attention that no temptation to bear a hand in
the fight caused him to lose sight of for a moment, and in an incredibly
short space of time the reduced team was on the move again.
Lamont's glance took in Clare Vidal's pale, set face with a glow of
indescribable relief. She was uninjured, and he noted further that she
gripped the revolver he had given her as though she had been using it.
She, for her part, was fully appraising this man, whom last she had seen
cool, indifferent, rather cynical. Now--grimy, unshaven, fierce-eyed--
he was all fire and energy, and she noted further that he seemed in
every way as one born to command. The alacrity with which the others
sprang to execute his orders did not escape her either--even Jim Steele,
whose ambition the other day had been to punch his head.
"Get your mules along as quick as you can, Wyndham," he said. "We must
be a good hour from the Kezane, and when these devils discover we are
not the advance guard of a bigger force they'll make it lively for us
again."
One more quick look, and that was all, then his attention was turned
solely and entirely to the matter in hand. Clare Vidal read that look,
and was perchance satisfied; anyhow she regarded him--grimy, unshaven,
fierce-eyed--with an admiration she had never felt for any living man.
The `coward'! she said to herself--the man whom her brother-in-law and
others had described as a funkstick.
"See here, Lamont," now sung out Fullerton. "I'm going to get on one of
those police horses and help in this racket. I'm dead sick of sitting
here."
For two of the horses of the fallen troopers had been brought on and
were being led by the survivors.
"All right. There'll be no harm in that. Miss Vidal, you'd better get
into the back of the waggon and let down the sail. We haven't done with
the enemy yet--and you won't be such a conspicuous mark when he comes on
again."