Thanks to the dense darkness, they made good progress on their way for a quarter of an hour or so. Then a scouting party of Sher Afzul’s followers suddenly appeared in front, and with a joyful shout gathered round them. At Whitchurch’s quick word of command the sturdy little Ghurkas closed in and fired a volley into the midst of their foes. There were yells of pain which told that some of the shots had taken effect, but the yells drew other Chitralis who were prowling near, and the answering shots of the enemy became more frequent. Whitchurch’s revolver spoke more than once with good effect, and his “Steady, men! Aim low,” rang out encouragingly above the din. The Chitralis, thank goodness, were firing somewhat at random, not knowing the strength of those opposed to them; but one bullet at last found its mark. A bearer dropped his end of the stretcher with a cry, and tumbled over backwards, dead. The jolt of the fall wrung a groan from poor Baird, in spite of his iron nerve. Then another stretcher-bearer stepped forward and lifted the dhoolie, and on the little party pressed again. Firing steadily in volleys, the gallant Ghurkas gradually cleared the way before them. The Chitralis had no wish to stand in the way of those deadly levelled barrels, preferring to circle round their prey and drop in a shot as opportunity offered. Two more bearers were killed, together with two or three sepoys, and the surgeon now took one end of the dhoolie himself. They had gone nearly half the distance when the enemy rallied in stronger force and barred the track ahead. Things were beginning to look serious. “Fix bayonets!” Whitchurch called out, and there was a rattle of steel in the sockets. “Charge!” And with a cheer the Ghurkas dashed at the cluster of white-robed figures, sending them scattering right and left, while a few lay writhing on the ground. That charge taught the Chitralis to keep at a more respectful distance, but a little later some daring spirits ventured nearer, and the last of the bearers fell shot through the body. Whitchurch put the dhoolie down and lifted up the wounded man in his strong arms. The Ghurkas were wanted, every man of them, to protect Baird with their rifles; not one could be spared for bearer-work. Again, it is said, the captain implored Whitchurch to leave him and make a run for it to the fort. Perhaps he felt already that his wound was mortal. But again the brave surgeon refused to hear a word. With Baird in his embrace, he struggled gamely after the sepoys. Along the rough, rock-strewn path the party stumbled, working their way ever nearer and nearer to the fort. A low wall confronted them thrice, a wall behind which the enemy were quick to post themselves. But jumping over with the surgeon to lead them, the nimble Ghurkas swept the way clear each time, and Whitchurch, having returned to pick up Baird, half carried and half dragged his weighty burden to the more open ground.