Then the squadron goes headlong for the kopje.
The ponies tear along, mad with excitement, their hoofs thundering on
the hard ground. The men grip their loaded carbines with their right
hands; not one that won't be first if he can. There go the shells! There
is a little shout of approval; one bursts right among the rocks on the
top of the kopje in a puff of white smoke; the other half-way down,
raising a great cloud of dust. The Mauser fire ceases as if by magic,
and the next instant the racing squadron has reached the rise. Down jump
the riders and clamber up over the stones. Yonder the enemy go, bundling
along a rough track not 500 yards away, half seen through whirling dust.
The men fling themselves down, some tearing a handful of cartridges from
their bandoliers to have handy, and settle their carbines on the rocks.
Crack! goes the first shot, and at the sound, as at a signal, the covey
of fleeing Boers shakes out and scatters over the veldt. The fire
quickens rapidly as the carbines come into action. Every Boer as he
rides off, you can see through the glasses, is pursued and attended by
little dust tufts that tell where the bullets strike. Surely they can't
be going to get off scot-free. "Take your time, men; _now do take your
time_," insists our captain. "A thousand yards, and aim well ahead!" And
now at last it is seen with glee that something is the matter with the
man on the white horse.
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