Then, with an awful
suddenness, their cry became the cry of death, for out from the
bushes belched a yellow line of fire as the rifles of Trent and his
men rang out their welcome. A dozen at least of the men of Bekwando
looked never again upon the faces of their wives, the rest hesitated.
Trent, in whom was the love of fighting, made then his first mistake.
He called for a sally, and rushed out, revolver in hand, upon the
broken line. Half the blacks ran away like rabbits; the remainder,
greatly outnumbering Trent and his party, stood firm. In a moment
it was hand-to-hand fighting, and Trent was cursing already the
bravado which had brought him out to the open.
For a while it was a doubtful combat. Then, with a shout of triumph,
the chief, a swarthy, thick-set man of herculean strength, recognised
Francis and sprang upon him. The blow which he aimed would most
surely have killed him, but that Trent, with the butt-end of a rifle,
broke its force a little. Then, turning round, he blew out the man's
brains as Francis sank backwards. A dismal yell from his followers
was the chief's requiem; then they turned and fled, followed by a
storm of bullets as Trent's men found time to reload. More than one
leaped into the air and fell forward upon their faces.
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