Weldon
laughed unfeelingly.
"Can't you keep out of range, you old target? If there's a bullet
coming your way, it's bound to graze you."
"This is only the fourth. Only one of those really meant business.
Oh, hang it! There they go again!" he burst out, as a distant line
of rocks crackled explosively and, a moment later, a random bullet
opened up the side of his shoe.
With the swift change of occupation to which the past four months
had accustomed them, they were soon in the saddle and galloping off
across the rolling veldt. Before them, a pair of guns were pounding
away at the rocky line and its flanking bushes, and beyond, over the
crest of the next ridge, scores of thick-set, burly figures were
racing in search of shelter, with a fragment of the Scottish Horse
in hot pursuit.
Neck and neck in the vanguard raced Weldon and Carew, with Captain
Frazer's huge khaki-colored horse hard on their heels. To Weldon,
the next hour was one of fierce excitement and pleasure. The shriek
of the shells, long since left behind, the flying figures before
them, the rise and fall of his own gray little broncho as she
stretched herself to measure the interminable veldt, the khaki-
colored desert, dotted with huge black rocks and shimmering with the
heat waves which rose above it towards the midday sun: his pulses
tingled and his head throbbed with the glorious rush of it all.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104