They were as near now as they could get.
There was a signal and then a wild chorus of yells.

They threw aside all disguise and darted forward, the still morning air hideous with their cry of battle.

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.