Dead Man's Land Part 76

In an instant Mak clutched Mark by the shoulder and tapped the barrel of his piece.

"Shoot, shoot!" he whispered loudly, and as the boy grasped his meaning he became aware of hurrying footsteps one of the bullocks uttered a low, excited bellow, its sleeping fellows sprang to their feet, and the boy drew trigger, the report raising the echoes that were lurking amongst the black ruins waiting to be aroused. Then he fired again, past his black companions, in the direction of the approaching steps.

The bellow uttered by the ox had made Dean spring to his feet, to feel for his rifle.

"This way! Come!" cried Mark, making a dash for the waggon, followed by the two blacks, all running for where the men from both waggons were s.n.a.t.c.hing their arms and preparing to respond to their leader's commands.

What followed was to the boys one horrible mental chaos. There were the loud yells of a strong body of savages uttering their fierce war cries, to stagger and alarm the occupants of the camp; the reports of rifles, the rush of feet, the shadowy figures of the fierce enemies, the being crushed together in a contending crowd, the eager cries of familiar voices, above all that of the doctor, giving orders which in the confusion could not be obeyed. There were harsh pantings too, blows, and the rattling made by spears against the barrels of rifles. More than once there was a raucous cry, and Mark in the wild excitement felt a strange pain through one arm, before he was trampled beneath the feet of those who were swaying to and fro fighting desperately.

The last thing that seemed clear to Mark was that everything was coming to an end and he was nearly unconscious as someone cried piteously, "Oh, father! Father!"

And then all was dark.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

"A BIT OFF HIS HEAD."

But it was not all over. When sense and feeling began to resume their seats, Mark was lying in the forest shade, dimly conscious that the sun's rays were striking horizontally through the dark, misty shadows of some place that he had never seen before.

A dull, heavy pain seemed to be pressing his head into the earth, and a sickening feeling of confusion troubled him which seemed to take the shape of one of the glorious golden rays of the sun darting and piercing him through the shoulder with the agonising pangs that accompanied fire.

Then in his throbbing head there was a question that kept on repeating itself--that cry he had last heard as of someone calling piteously, something about his father, and who could it be?

This went on and on for what seemed to be an endless time, and he could make out nothing else, till someone spoke in a deep, gruff voice, and said, "Yes, my lad, it is a very bad job, and I say, thank my stars I hadn't the watch."

"Ay, messmate, and I say the same. The cooking was more in my way."

"Buck--Dan Mann," thought Mark, for he recognised the voices; but he could not make out why it was he was lying there, nor whose father it was somebody had been calling to.

He tried to think, but the more he tried to make out what it all meant the greater grew the confusion, and at last he felt too weary to try, or the power to continue the effort failed, for he lay quite still in a stupor.

When his senses began to return again the sun had attacked--or so it seemed--his other side. There was a peculiar gnawing in his shoulder, and now and then a stinging pain as from a red hot ray, and while he was trying to puzzle it out, a hand was gently laid upon his forehead, where his head was most charged with pain, and he made a feeble effort to turn where he lay upon his back.

"Who's that?" he said.

"Oh, Mark! Mark!" came in a familiar voice; and that voice seemed to give back the power to think.

"You, Dean! What does it all mean?"

"Oh, don't you know?"

Mark was silent, for like a flash came the recollection of what had pa.s.sed--his going to seek his cousin, his sitting asleep, and the big Illaka standing close by in possession of the watcher's rifle, doing the duty that had been neglected.

"I was beginning to be afraid that I should never hear you speak again, and you mustn't speak much, I'm sure, while you are so dreadfully weak.

But I must talk to you a little. You do feel a little better now?"

"Better? No."

"Oh, Mark, old fellow, don't say that!"

"I'm wounded, am I not?"

"Oh, yes, dreadfully; and I have been in despair. I couldn't have borne it, but Buck kept giving me hope. There were days, though, and nights, when you hardly seemed to breathe."

"Days and nights!" whispered Mark. "What do you mean? Wasn't it yesterday? Or was it to-day, just before dawn?"

"Oh, Mark! Mark! It was weeks ago!"

Mark was silent for a few minutes, as he lay thinking.

"Weeks!" he said, at last, and he lay perfectly silent. "Where are we now?"

"Right away in the wilds somewhere, where our friends brought us after they carried us off that night. I have hardly thought of that--only of you."

"Our friends!" said Mark, at last. "Who are our friends?"

"Buck and Dan and the two blacks."

"Buck and Dan!" almost whispered Mark. "I heard them talking, and thought it was a little while ago."

Strangely wild thoughts were running now through Dean's brain. His cousin had been so long in that dreadful stupor, insensible even to the touch of those who had dressed his wounds and cooled his burning brain by applications to the spot where a blow from a club had struck him down. Was this the poor fellow's senses returning for a short time, before--?

"I can't bear it," whispered Dean to himself. "Speak to me again just this once, Mark," he said aloud, "and then I want you to sleep. Both Buck and Dan say that sleep is the best thing for you now. I want you to tell me that you will get better."

Mark made no answer. He was thinking. It was coming back more and more.

"Oh, I know you are badly hurt," said Dean, at last. "I know how awful it all is, but Mark--Mark, old chap, don't--don't say anything to me; only tell me you are going to be better!"

"I can't speak. I can't think. Don't talk to me. Go away."

Dean uttered a groan of misery, and rising slowly he left his cousin to begin fighting once more against the confusion that oppressed his brain.

And now as the poor fellow lay seeming to go backward into what was like so much mental darkness, he heard the gruff voices of the two men talking, and then his cousin's words sounding as if in appeal, while soon after Mark opened his eyes to find that somebody was leaning over him. But the sun had set, and it was growing too dark now for him to make out who it was.

Then he knew.

"Asleep, Mr Mark, sir?"

"No, Dan. What does it all mean? Is it fever?--No, no, don't speak. I remember now. Hasn't there been a big fight?"

"Yes, sir; horrid."

"Did you get hurt?"

"A bit p.r.i.c.ked, sir."

"With a spear?" said Mark sharply.