him. His aim was as accurate as when directed
against a mark stuck against a tree, and a man fell at each shot. But
the natives' blood was thoroughly up now, and in spite of the slaughter
they rushed forward. There was no room in the narrow defile for two men
to swing their rifles, and Mr. Atherton and the settler stepped forward
to meet the foe with their clubbed rifles in their hands. Two crashing
blows were delivered with effect, but before the settler could again
raise his weapon three Maoris were upon him. One tomahawk struck him in
the shoulder and the rifle fell from his hands. Another raised his
tomahawk to brain him, but fell with a bullet from Wilfrid's revolver
through his chest; but the third native brought his weapon down with
terrible force upon the settler's head, and he fell in a heap upon the
ground. The tremendous strength of Mr. Atherton stood him in good stead
now. The first blow he had dealt had smashed the stock of his rifle, but
he whirled the iron barrel like a light twig round his head, dealing
blows that broke down the defence of the natives as if their tomahawks
had been straw, and beating them down as a flail would level a wheat
stalk. Those in front of him recoiled from a strength which seemed to
them superhuman, while whenever one tried to attack him in the rear
Wilfrid's revolver came into play with fatal accuracy. At last, with a
cry of terror, the surviving natives turned and retreated at the top of
their speed.

"Hot work, Wilfrid," Mr. Atherton said as he lowered his terrible weapon
and wiped the streaming perspiration from his face; "but we have given
the rascals such a lesson that we can journey on at our leisure. This is
a bad business of poor Sampson's. I will help you down first and then we
will see to him. Recharge your revolver, lad," he went on as Wilfrid
stood beside him; "some of these fellows may not be dead, and may play
us an ugly trick if we are not on the look-out."

Wilfrid reloaded his pistol, and Mr. Atherton then stooped over the
fallen man.

"He is desperately hurt," he said, "but he breathes. Hand me that
revolver, Wilfrid, and run back and tell Mrs. Sampson her husband is
hurt."

Wilfrid had gone but a yard or two when he met his mother and the
settler's wife, who, hearing the cessation of the firing, were no longer
able to restrain their anxiety as to what was going forward. Mrs.
Renshaw gave a cry of joy at seeing Wilfrid walking towards her.

"Is it all o