Suddenly it occurred to Meyer that although here the Matabele were safe
from the Makalanga bullets, it was commanded from the greater eminence,
and by way of recreation he set himself to harass them. His rifle was a
sporting Martini, and he had an ample supply of ammunition. Moreover, he
was a beautiful marksman, with sight like that of a hawk.
A few trial shots gave him the range; it was a shade under seven hundred
yards, and then he began operations. Lying on the top of the wall
and resting his rifle upon a stone, he waited until the man who was
superintending the manufacture of the ladders came out into the open,
when, aiming carefully, he fired. The soldier, a white-bearded savage,
sprang into the air, and fell backwards, while his companions stared
upwards, wondering whence the bullet had come.
"Pretty, wasn't it?" said Meyer to Benita, who was watching through a
pair of field-glasses.
"I dare say," she answered. "But I don't want to see any more," and
giving the glasses to her father, she climbed down the wall.
But Meyer stayed there, and from time to time she heard the report of
his rifle. In the evening he told her that he had killed six men and
wounded ten more, adding that it was the best day's shooting which he
could remember.
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