een what Harley Greenoak could do in
the shooting line. So Jacob Snyman, _alias_ Manyelo, deciding that
however valuable some thousands of rounds of cartridge might be to his
expectant countrymen over yonder, life was a good deal more valuable to
him--with sufficient show of pretence at succeeding--effectually turned
his team, bringing it round to the escort again.

A volley of congratulations awaited.

"Well done, Jacob!" cried Sub-Inspector Ladell. "Why, man, we none of
us expected to see you again with a whole skin, and so many more rounds
of ammunition for John Kafir to blaze away at us with. Well done! By
Jove, you stopped those fools of horses just in time!"

Jacob Snyman grinned softly, deprecatingly, and remarked that Ladell--
and incidentally the Government--was his father. But Harley Greenoak
said nothing.

The escort moved forward again, the savage enemy watching it from his
far cover, and speculating on his chances of doing better next time.
The Police were in high glee. They had beaten off a determined attack,
with heavy odds against them, at considerable loss to the enemy--over
forty dead had been hurriedly counted--and they themselves had come out
without a scratch. To be sure, the said enemy had omitted to use any
firearms, which omission they quite overlooked, or, if they gave it a
thought, it was only as a subject for passing wonder. But Harley
Greenoak did not so overlook it; for he knew the reason. The Kafirs
wanted that ammunition, and so refrained from any act which should
result in blowing it all sky high. This was why he himself, except when
in pursuit of the runaway team, had kept between the waggons and the
enemy.

Night fell, the moon rose, and the convoy held on its way unmolested.
The Police troopers were in high spirits after their first fight. Not
less exultant was Dick Selmes; and during the short halt that was made,
in order to rest the horses and snatch a hurried meal, he was fighting
the battle over again with characteristic exuberance. All had shown
what they could do.

Towards dawn another halt was called, and the tired troopers, flinging
themselves on the ground, were fast asleep in a minute. But for their
officer, tired as he was, there was no rest. His anxiety increased as
they drew nearer to their objective; and, by way of adding to such
anxiety, a heavy mist drew down. Sharing his vigil was Harley Greenoak.

The latter suddenly held up a hand for silence--