," I cried, with my youthful
impetuosity. "He shall be brought in alive, though all Salisbury as one
man try its best to lynch him."

I went out to report myself as a volunteer for service. Within the
next few hours the whole town had been put in a state of siege, and all
available men armed to oppose the insurgent Matabele. Hasty preparations
were made for defence. The ox-waggons of settlers were drawn up outside
in little circles here and there, so as to form laagers, which acted
practically as temporary forts for the protection of the outskirts. In
one of these I was posted. With our company were two American scouts,
named Colebrook and Doolittle, irregular fighters whose value in South
African campaigns had already been tested in the old Matabele war
against Lo-Bengula. Colebrook, in particular, was an odd-looking
creature--a tall, spare man, bodied like a weasel. He was red-haired,
ferret-eyed, and an excellent scout, but scrappier and more inarticulate
in his manner of speech than any human being I had ever encountered.
His conversation was a series of rapid interjections, jerked out at
intervals, and made comprehensible by a running play of gesture and
attitude.

"Well, yes," he said, when I tried to draw him out on the Matabele mode
of fighting. "Not on the open. Never! Grass, if you like. Or bushes. The
eyes of them! The eyes!..." He leaned eagerly forward, as if looking for
something. "See here, Doctor; I'm telling you. Spots. Gleaming. Among
the grass. Long grass. And armed, too. A pair of 'em each. One to
throw"--he raised his hand as if lancing something--"the other for close
fighting. Assegais, you know. That's the name of it. Only the eyes.
Creeping, creeping, creeping. No noise. One raised. Waggons drawn up in
laager. Oxen out-spanned in the middle. Trekking all day. Tired out; dog
tired. Crawl, crawl, crawl! Hands and knees. Might be snakes. A wriggle.
Men sitting about the camp fire. Smoking. Gleam of their eyes! Under the
waggons. Nearer, nearer, nearer! Then, the throwing ones in your midst.
Shower of 'em. Right and left. 'Halloa! stand by, boys!' Look up; see
'em swarming, black like ants, over the waggons. Inside the laager.
Snatch up rifles! All up! Oxen stampeding, men running, blacks sticking
'em like pigs in the back with their assegais. Bad job, the whole thing.
Don't care for it, myself. Very tough 'uns to fight. If they once break
laager."

"Then you should never let them get to close qua