e I count five I'll put a bullet
through each of them. Now--_Inye_--_zimbini_--_zintatu_..." [One--
two--three.]

"Hold hard, don't be a fool," warned Payne. "The shots are bound to be
heard."

"So they are. I know a better trick than that." And striking a match
Carhayes walked his horse up to the nearest hut. This was sufficient.
The old crones shrieked for mercy, while one of them quavered out:

"Ride that way, _abelungu_!" [White men] pointing in a direction they
had not intended to take. "But you will have to ride far--very far."

Believing they had inspired sufficient terror to insure the truth of
this information, and furiously cursing the time wasted in eliciting it,
Carhayes crammed the spurs into his horse's flanks and started off at a
gallop, followed by the other three. But the old crone's statement
proved correct. A couple of miles further the tracks, which had been
more or less scattered and indistinct, converged into one broad spoor.
Another ridge, then down into a kloof, and up the other side. Then, as
they gained the brow of yet another ridge, an excited ejaculation burst
from the lips of all four. Nearly a mile in front, stringing up a long,
gradual acclivity, trotted the thirteen oxen, urged forward by three
natives.

"Hurrah! Now we'll cut 'em out!" yelled Carhayes, as they dashed
forward in pursuit. The Kafirs, loath to abandon their spoil until
absolutely forced to do so, redoubled their efforts, as with loud shouts
and waving karosses they strove to accelerate the pace of the already
overdriven animals.

"We'd better risk a long shot," shouted Hoste, as it became apparent
that the pursued were very near the top of the rise, and in another
moment would be out of sight. "There may be a lot of bush, on the other
side, and we may lose them."

"No. Better not lose time or distance," said the more prudent Payne.
"We'll have 'em directly."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"ONWARD THEY PLY--IN DREADFUL RACE."

The Kafirs, with their spoil, had disappeared, and on the pursuers
gaining the ridge, there seemed, as Hoste had suggested, a pretty good
chance of losing them altogether; for the mere depression of the ground
down which they were racing, narrowed and deepened into a long, winding
valley, thickly overgrown with mimosa bushes and tall grass. The
marauders could now be seen straining every nerve to gain this--with
their booty, if possible--if not, without it. Every shouted sum