rough that bit of bush and no one else will move. Do nothing until I
open fire from the other side. The moment I open fire, up your lot come
and do the same. Magazine, of course. The moon will improve as it rises
more. You'll fix bayonets and charge magazines now. I expect a pretty
big convoy--and before very long. Probably a mob all round a couple of
_bylegharies_[67] and a crowd following--everybody distrusting every
one, as it is treasure, looted from all round. Don't shoot the bullocks,
but I particularly want to kill a blind bloke who may be with 'em, so if
we charge, barge in too, and look out for a blinder and don't give him
any quarter--give him half instead--half your sword. He's a
ringleader--and I want him for auld lang syne too, as it happens. He
doesn't look blind at all, but he would be led.... Any questions?"

[67] Bullock-carts.

"No, Sir. I'm to hide till you fire. Then fire, magazine, and charge if
you do. A blind man to be captured if possible. The bullocks not to be
shot, if possible."

"Eight O. Carry on," and the Colonel strode back to where the remaining
twenty-five waited, under a Sergeant. These he placed behind an old
stone wall that marked the boundary of a once-cultivated patch of land,
some forty yards from the road, to which the ground sloped sharply
downwards.

A nice trap if all went well.

All went exceeding well.

Within an hour and a half of the establishment of the ambush, the
creaking of ungreased wheels was heard and the loud nasal singing of
some jovial soul. Down the silent deserted road came three bullock-carts
piled high with boxes and escorted by a ragged regiment of ex-sepoys,
ex-police, mutineers, almost a battalion from the forces of the wild
Border State neighbouring Gungapur. A small crowd of variously armed
uniformless men preceded the escort and carts, while a large one
followed them.

No advance-guard nor flanking-parties guaranteed the force from ambush
or attack.

Suddenly, as the carts crossed a long culvert and the escort perforce
massed on to the road, instead of straggling on either side beneath the
trees, a voice said coolly in English "Up and fire," and as scores of
surprised faces turned in the direction of the voice the night was rent
with the crash of fifty rifles pouring in magazine fire at the rate of
fifteen rounds a minute. Magazine fire at less than fifty yards, into a
close-packed body of men. Scarcely a hundred shots were returned and, by