ted to consult. Then they had
gone on again--not along the first spoor, but diagonally from it.

He himself adopted the same course, taking the other side of the single
spoor. In this way if the missing man were travelling straight he would
reach him first--would reach him and bear him off before the destroyers
now pursuing him like hounds should run into him. But it would be a
near thing.

The dull hoarse roar of the swollen river sounded close in front.
Louder and louder it grew. The missing man could not be far ahead now.
Rising in his stirrups he gazed anxiously around. No sign. He dared
not shout. The band of Matabele who were in pursuit of Skelsey could
not be far distant on his left. He was almost on the river bank, and
still no sign of the fugitive. Well, the roar of the water would
prevent his voice from reaching far--anyhow he would risk it.

"Skelsey! Where are you?" he called, but not loudly. "Skelsey!"

He listened intently. Was that an answer? Something between a cry and
a groan--and--it was behind him.

He turned his horse, and as he did so, the thought occurred to him that
he might be walking into a trap--that the savages might already have
butchered his comrade, and be lying in wait to take him with the least
trouble and risk to themselves. Well, he must chance it, and the
chances were about even.

"Skelsey! Where are you, old chap?" he called again in a low tone.

This time an answer came, but faintly.

"Here."

Lying under a bush was the missing man. He raised his head feebly, and
gazed with lack-lustre eyes at his would-be rescuer.

"Get up behind me, quick!" said the latter.

"Can't. I've sprained my ankle. Can't stand. I was going to crawl to
the river and end it all."

"Well, you've got to ride instead. Come, I'll give you a hand. Quick,
man! There are a lot of Matabele after you, I struck their spoors."

The while he had been helping the other to rise. Skelsey groaned and
ground his teeth with the pain. He was exhausted too, with starvation.

"Can't help it. You must pull yourself together," said Blachland,
hoisting him into the saddle and himself mounting behind. "Now stick
tight on for all you know how, for we've got to run for it."

"Ping-ping!" A bullet hummed overhead, then another. The horse snorted
and plunged forward, nearly falling. The ground was rough, the
condition of the animal indifferent, and the double burden considerably
too much for