"There, you swab," said the old man, "that'll larn you to break
another time." Then he took once more his place in the patrol
round the mob. They circled and eddied and pushed, always staring
angrily at the riders. Suddenly a big, red bullock gave a snort
of defiance, and came out straight towards Carew. He stopped once,
shook his head ominously, and came on again. One of the gins dashed
up with the whip; but the bullock had evidently decided to take
all chances, and advanced on his foes at a trot.
"Choot him, that feller!" screamed the gin to Carew. "You choot
him! He bin yan away! No more stop! Choot him!"
Carew lugged out his revolver, and tried to pull his horse to a
standstill, but the wary old veteran knew better than to be caught
standing by a charging bullock; just as Carew fired, he plunged forward,
with the result that the bullet went over the mob altogether, and
very nearly winged Charlie, who was riding on the far side. Then
the bullock charged in earnest; and Carew's horse, seeing that
if he wished to save human life he must take matters into his own
hands, made a bolt for it. Carew half-turned in the saddle, and
fired twice, only making the black boys on the far side cower down
on their horses' necks. Then the horse took complete charge, and
made off for the scrub with the bullock after him, and every animal
in the mob after the bullock.
Nothing in the world could have stopped them. Considine and
Charlie raced in front, alongside Carew, cracking their whips and
shouting; the blacks flogged the coachers up with the wild cattle;
but they held on their way, plunged with a mighty crash into the
thick timber, and were lost. No horseman could ride a hundred yards
in that timber at night. Coachers and all were gone together, and
the dispirited hunters gathered at the edge of the scrub and looked
at each other.
"Well, Mister, you couldn't stop him," said the old man.
"I'm afraid I made--rather a mess of things, don't you know," said
the Englishman. "I thought I hit him the second time, too. Seemed
to be straight at him."
"I think you done very well to miss us! I heard one bullet whiz past
me like a scorpyun. Well, it can't be helped. Those old coachers
will all battle their way home again before long. Gordon, I vote
we go home. They're your cattle now, and you'll have to come out
again after 'em some day, and do a little more shootin'. Get a suit
of armour on you first, though."
As they jogged home through the bright moonlight, they heard loud
laughter from the blacks, and Carew, looking back, found the fat
gin giving a dramatic rehearsal of his exploits. She dashed her
horse along at a great pace, fell on his neck, clutched wildly at
the reins, then suddenly turned in her saddle, and pretended to
fire point-blank at the other blacks, who all dodged the bullet.
Then she fell on the horse's neck again, and so on ad lib.