"Hoste--Eustace--watch that point where the pumpkin patch ends. They'll have a clear run of at least a hundred yards there," said Carhayes, who was sitting on an ant-heap a little apart from the rest, every now and then taking a shot as he saw his chance. "It's a devil of a distance," growled Hoste. "Six hundred yards if it's an inch--Ah!" For the Kafirs sprang up just where Carhayes had foretold, and again, with a crash, many rifles were emptied at them. Fifty--thirty--twenty yards more and they will be safe. Suddenly one of them falls. "He's down--fairly down!" yelled someone. "A long shot, too. Oh-h-h! He's only winged! Look! He's up again?" It was so. The fallen man was literally hopping on one leg, with the other tucked up under him. In a moment both Kafirs had reached the cover and disappeared. "Well, I never!" cried Hoste; "Heaven knows how many shots we've thrown away upon those devils and now they've given us the slip after all." "Anyone would take us for a pack of bloomin' sojers. Can't hit a nigger in a dozen shots apiece. Pooh!" growled a burly frontiersman, in tones of ineffable disgust, as he blew into the still smoking breech of his rifle. "Eh, what's that?" he continued as all eyes were bent on the spot where the fugitives had disappeared. For a tall savage had emerged from the bush, and with a howl of derision began to execute a _pas seul_ in the open. Then with a very contemptuous gesture, and shaking his assegai at his white enemies, he sprang into the forest again, laughing loudly. They recognised him as the man who had escaped unhurt. "Well, I'm somethinged!" cried Carhayes. "That nigger has got the laugh of us now." "He's a plucky dog," said another. "If any fellow deserved to escape he did. Four hundred yards and a score of us blazing away at him at once! Well, well!" "I've known that sort of thing happen more than once," said Shelton, the leader of the party, an experienced frontiersman who had served in two previous wars. "Same thing in buck shooting. You'll see a score of fellows all blazing at the same buck, cutting up the dust all round him till you can hardly see the poor beast, and yet not touching him. That's because they're excited, and shooting jealous. Now with one or two cool shots lying up and taking their time, the buck wouldn't have a ghost of a show--any more than would those two Kafirs have had. But we'd better get on, boys. We'll off-saddle further ahead, and then our horses will be fresh for whatever may turn up. It's my opinion there are more of those chaps hanging about." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE TABLES TURNED. Eager at the prospect of a brush, their appetites for which had been whetted by what had just occurred, they resumed their way in the best of spirits, and at length fixing upon a suitable spot the party off-saddled for breakfast.