"Can you see their horses anywhere?" said the man who was in advance of
his three companions, and they again stopped and looked about them.

"Oh, they are all right," said a second voice; "well find 'em easy
enough in the morning. They're both hobbled, and won't be far away. Now
come on, Pinky, and show us your nigger with the top of his head off.
You're a great gasser, I know. Strike a match, Barney, and I'll get a
bit of dry ti-tree bark to give us a light."

Gerrard pressed Tommy's arm. "Wait, Tommy, wait. Let them get a light.
All the better for us. Listen!"

"I suppose they are properly done for, Cheyne?" said Forreste, who had a
revolver in his hand.

"Oh, put your flaming pistol back into its pouch, you funky owl,"
snarled Barney Green, "they both dropped at the first time, as I told
you. Gerrard fell on to the fire, and you'll find him cooking there,
and that both of 'em are as full of holes as a cullender. We've wasted
a hundred cartridges for nothing, but I daresay we'll get some more. He
had a forty-four Winchester, and the nigger a Snider."

A match was struck, and the two motionless watchers saw Cheyne go to a
ti-tree, which grew on the edge of the large pool, tear off the outer
thin and wet bark, and then make a torch of the dry part, which lit
easily. Pinkerton waved it to and fro for a few moments, and then held
it up. It burst into flame.

"Now, Tommy, quick! Take the big man," and as Gerrard spoke he covered
Green.

The two rifles rang out, and Forreste and the Jew fell. Pinkerton
dropped the torch and tried to draw his revolver, but a second shot from
Gerrard broke his leg, and he too dropped. Cheyne sprang off towards
the pool, leapt in, and swam across to where their horses were hidden.
Tommy, with all the lust of slaughter upon him, tomahawk in hand, ran
round the pool to intercept him on the other side.

"Let him go, Tommy, let him go!" shouted Gerrard, who was now feeling
faint from loss of blood. "Come back, come back!" and as he spoke,
Pinkerton, who could see him, began firing at him.

The black boy obeyed just as Gerrard sank back upon the ground. The
still blazing torch, however, revealed his prone figure to the American,
who, rising upon one knee, reloaded his revolver. Then Tommy leapt at
him, raised his tomahawk, and clove his head in twain.

"Did he hit you, boss?" he cried, as, still holding the ensanguined
weapon in his hand, he darted to his master.

"No, Tommy, I'm all r