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.
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