CHAPTER TWELVE.
IN THE THICK OF IT.
The report of the rifle was magical in its effect upon the Basuto ponies, each rearing up on its hind legs and striking out with its forefeet; but the same punishment was meted out by the riders--namely, a sharp tap between the ears with the barrels of the rifles--and the result was that beyond fidgeting they stood fairly still, while _flash, flash, flash_, three more shots were fired.

The bullets whizzed by with their peculiar noise, sounding quite close, but probably nowhere near the riders--those who fired judging in the darkness quite by sound.
"Let's keep on at a walk," whispered West; but, low as his utterance was, the sound reached an enemy's ears.
"Mind what you're about!" said someone close at hand, evidently mistaking the speaker for a friend; "one of those bullets went pretty close to my ear.

Whereabouts are they ?" "Away to the right," whispered Ingleborough, in Dutch.
"Come on then," said the former speaker.

"_Ck_!" The pony the man rode made a plunge as if spurs had been suddenly dug into its sides, and the dull beat of its hoofs on the dusty soil told of the course its rider was taking.
West was about to speak when the rapid beating of hoofs came from his left, and he had hard work to restrain his own mount from joining a party of at least a dozen of the enemy as they swept by noisily in the darkness.
"What do the fools think they are going to do by galloping about like that ?" said Ingleborough gruffly.
"If they had kept still they might have caught us.

Hallo! Firing again!" Three or four shots rang out on the night air, and away in front of the pair the beating of hoofs was heard again.
"Why, the country seems alive with them," whispered West.