Malcolm had about made up his mind to go down also, when suddenly he heard a weird call off in the woods. It reminded him of the "coo-ee" of the Australian bushmen. It was evidently the sound of a human voice. Another answered it. The black man who had staid on the surface with old Grumpah and himself gave a startled look around, and without a word put off into the woods. "Some one is coming," shouted Malcolm down the shaft. Again the call was heard. This time those below heard it also. "Hurry up! get us out!" shouted Gifford. "It's the Bangwalis. I know the cry." Hurriedly he emptied the earth out of the basket, and, with Mr. McFee, stepped inside, holding fast to the rope. Malcolm took one handle and Grumpah the other. Slowly they turned the windlass that was supporting more than its usual weight. They had raised it perhaps ten feet or so when there was a sharp crack, and old Grumpah gave a groan. The handle on his side had broken. The old man, who had been straining forward with all his strength, slipped his footing and plunged headlong into the pit. The weight now was more than Malcolm's arms could stand, and do his best he could not help the windlass slipping from his grasp. Down went the basket. "Are you hurt?" he shouted. "Steady, Mal, my boy," came his father's voice in reply. "Keep cool. Now try again. One at a time!" Malcolm put forth all the might of his strong young back, and slowly the bucket came to the surface, this time with his father alone. "The old nig broke his neck," were the first words he said. "Come, get the others out." [Illustration: McFEE AND MALCOLM GRASPED THE WINCH HANDLE.] At this moment, nearer than before, sounded the strange cry. McFee grasped the winch handle with his son, and they had wound Gifford nearly to the top, when Malcolm heard a noise and looked up. Not thirty feet away, parting the bushes, stood a strange figure. Over the top of a long shield peered an excited black face, and behind it another. The gleam of a broad spear-head and the tossing of a headdress farther back showed that there were more to come. So paralyzed were the natives by astonishment at what they saw that they stood there for a moment like ebony statues. McFee saw his opportunity. "Pull hard, boy," he said. "This affair has gone past treating;" and he stooped quickly and picked up the Martini rifle from the ground. The shot rang out at once, and the nearest two figures lunged forward, for the ball had passed through both of them. Gifford was now swarming up the rope faster than Malcolm could raise the bucket. A wild cry rang through the woods, but dismayed by the death of the foremost two, the rest of the Bangwalis had taken to their heels. "Get your guns," cried Gifford. "We must make for the high ground down the path." The black man down at the bottom of the pit set up a piteous howl. "We can't leave him," cried Malcolm, letting the bucket go by the run.