Beyond the pass were more ridges, some parallel with his course, some crossing it.Far to the eastward, he could see a moving spot, black even in the increasing darkness of the night.Leaving Piggie to pick her own way along the rocky ridge, he rose in his stirrups, shaded his eyes with his hands and peered anxiously towards the spot.At last his straining eyes could make out eight Boer horsemen, riding furiously towards the peak which he was in honor bound to hold.And their course was the chord of the arc of his own circle.
He dropped back to the saddle where he bent low, yielding his whole body to the flying body of his horse.
The crest was sharp.To the east, its approach was more easy; but on the west it offered a wall of blank, black rock.The fat Boer ponies were still at some distance from the eastern slope, when Weldon flung himself from his panting broncho.Carew protested, as they told off by fours and he was left, the third man, with Paddy's mount, the gray broncho and a huge brown Argentine horse on his hands.
"Sorry, old man!" Weldon said briefly."It's luck, and dead against you.Still, it may save Miss Mellen a bad half-hour.Look out for Piggie.She deserves it." And, turning, he led the way up the wall of rock, with thirteen men, breathless, grim and eager, scrambling at his heels.
For moments, it seemed to him that Fate was idly tossing the dice to and fro, before allowing herself to make the final, decisive cast.
From the farther side of the hill, he heard a sudden terrified snort from one of the Boer ponies, then the thud of feet, as they charged up the approaches of the long slope.From behind him, there arose a groan, as one of the men, missing his foothold in the deepening dusk, crashed back against the loose rocks at the bottom of the hill.Then a shot and a whinnying moan told him that Carew and his three comrades had edged around the base of the hill into range of the enemy above them.The man might be wounded, too, as well as the mount.Seven Boers, and they were thirteen in all.The cast was all for--A dash of light! A rattle of firing! Three of his men dropped backwards.The other ten looked up to face a second flash from the summit.Only eight heard the answering echoes which came rolling back to them from the encircling hills.Then Paddy's voice came in his ears, low, but as unconcerned as ever.
"Remember the fellow who was rejected on account of his teeth, little Canuck? 'Faith,' he said; 'it's shooting the damned Boers Iwant to be, not eating them.' But, by the holy Virgin Mary, in another ten minutes we'll be shaking 'em between our teeth."The next flash but one showed only five men on the steep rocky wall;but those five men were close to the summit.Once on the top, their rifles could come into play.It was maddening to be picked off, like stuffed crows resting on a tree branch; maddening to listen to the low sounds from beneath which told them that some one of their comrades was facing the end of his fight.Then, just as they reached the summit, one of their five dropped, with a bullet shattering the bone of his ankle.
"Go on, boys! You'll get there," he said, as the next in line dashed past him."The hill is Weldon's.Mind you hold it for him.The devil is in him, and he's bound to win."On top of the hill, six Boers were huddled in the scant shelter of a few low, scattered rocks tufted with a bunch of brush whose bleached stalks marked the darkness with a pale line of range for their fire.
The next volley went astray.It was answered by the crack of Paddy's rifle.Paddy's chuckle followed close on the crack."I rolled him over like a sausage in the hot fat," he commented, as he took a second aim."Here goes for another, and may his bed in heaven have a valance to hide his sins!" A second Boer vanished behind the rocks.
Four Boers in shelter, four Britons in the open; and, on the plain beneath, twenty-seven hundred men were waiting to see the outcome of the game.
The tension of the eight men increased.It rendered their aim unsteady.Under its influence, seven men fell to wasting their ammunition.The eighth was Paddy.Firing rarely, his rare bullets told.Now a finger was shattered, now an ear was grazed.
"I'm not doing much killing; but, faith, I'm warming 'em up a bit,"he said, as he halted to cool his rifle."It's keeping the ball a-rolling, and them busy.Else, belike they'd find Satan filling the idle hands of them with bad deeds.Little Canuck dear, this is hot work for a boy."Weldon nodded.His hat had been lost in the scramble up the hill, his putties were dragged into heaps of khaki about his knees, the shoulder of his coat was torn by a passing bullet and a scarlet trickle lined his cheek; but his face was alert and eager, his lips parted in a half-smile which brought back to Paddy's mind a dim picture of the boyish trooper he had known and loved at Piquetberg Road.Then another man in khaki dropped at their feet.The lines of Weldon's mouth straightened.
"No go," he said briefly."We must charge.It's our only chance."Paddy took one last, hasty shot.Then, gripping his rifle, he turned to Weldon.
"True, little Canuck," he answered loyally."Go on, and be sure Paddy will follow you to the other edge of the grave!"He spoke truthfully.The reinforcements came rushing up the eastern slope of the hill, to find their pathway encumbered with bearded men in frock-coats and bandoliers.On top of the crest, surrounded by the wounded and the dying, sat a single man in khaki, the light of victory in his gleaming eyes, and Paddy's lifeless body clasped in his weary arms.
