Chapter Thirty Three.
The “Schelm Bushmen.”
No further thought of their quarrel now. That must be put aside in the face of the common enemy.
They had several hundred yards of stiff uphill work before they could reach the horses. The savages were still nearly a mile distant, but above, and running on the level. It would be a near race.
As soon as they perceived that their approach was discovered the barbarians set up a shrill yell, and redoubled their efforts to arrive in time to cut off our two adventurers from their horses. It became a stirring race for life.
Up the steep mountain-side they pressed. Renshaw, being in hard training, easily took the lead. The other began to pant and blow in most distressful fashion almost before he was half way.
“Keep up, Sellon. Put on a spurt, if you can,” said Renshaw, dropping on one knee and taking aim at the onrushing crowd.
The weapon cracked. It was a long shot, but he had fired “into the brown.” There was a splash of dust, just short of the mob. Then the savages scattered, leaping and bounding like bucks. One could be seen crawling on the sward, evidently badly wounded by the ball in its ricochet.
But the check was only momentary. On pressed the pursuers, now in more scattered formation, zigzagging along the rocks at the base of the cock’s-comb ridge, nearer, nearer. They were a hideous group—some squat and monkey-like, others long and gaunt—grotesque mud-coloured figures, their ragged wool and staring, horn-like ears given them the aspect of so many mediaevally depicted fiends. They were armed with assegais and bows. Already many of them were fitting arrows to the string.
Sellon, hardly able to put one foot before the other, had reached his horse. Staggering with exhaustion, he just managed to throw himself into the saddle. But he had completely lost his head.
“Down the gully, Sellon—it’s our only chance—but it’s neck or nothing. Follow my lead—and—keep your head.”
It crossed Renshaw’s mind to deliver another shot. But it would only be precious time lost. There were at least fifty of their assailants. One shot, however fatal, would not stop them, and it was of the first importance to keep beyond range of the poisoned arrows.
Rugged as the gully had seemed in ascending, it was a tenfold more formidable business now. It was like riding down a flight of stairs, with the difference that here the evenness of the stairs was lacking. Large boulders and small ones, sharp stones and smooth stones, loose stones and rubble—all had to be got over somehow. And then, that awful precipice at the bottom!
And now the cliffs resounded with the shrill yells of the pursuers. They had reached the head of the gully, and, dropping from rock to rock with the agility of monkeys, were gaining on the two white men. Renshaw, turning warily in his saddle, while still keeping an eye on the guidance of his steed, got in one revolver shot at a gaunt Koranna, who had sprung to the top of a boulder, and was on the point of launching a spear. The fellow threw up his arms and toppled backwards, but not before he had hurled his weapon, which, inflicting a flesh wound on Sellon’s horse, caused the animal to squeal and bound forward.
Perfectly unmanageable, frenzied with pain and terror, the horse shot past Renshaw, his rider vainly endeavouring to restrain him. One stride—two—three—the horse was among the loose rubble on the cliffs brow. There was a prodigious plunging of hoofs—a cloud of dust and gravel—a slide—a frantic struggle—then with a scream, which even at that stirring moment curdled the listeners’ blood, the poor steed disappeared into space—while his rider, who, in the very nick of time, had slipped to the ground, stood bewildered and pale at the thought of the frightful danger he had escaped.
But there was peril enough behind to allow no time for thought. The barbarians, profiting by the moment’s confusion, came swarming down the rocks, yelling and hissing like fiends. A shower of assegais and arrows came whizzing about the ears of the fugitives.
The latter, in about three bounds, had cleared the fearful “elbow” overhanging the abyss, and which they had crossed so circumspectly in cold blood the previous day. Rounding it safely, they had gained one advantage; they were out of arrow range for the moment.
“Lay hold of my stirrup-leather,” cried Renshaw, “and run alongside. There’s clear going now for some way to come.”
But Sellon had sunk to the ground groaning with pain.
“I can’t,” he gasped. “My ankle’s sprained.”
Here was a situation. A dismounted comrade with a sprained ankle, unable to walk even, let alone run; a crowd of bloodthirsty barbarians close behind swarming down the mountain-side in pursuit. Surely one of the two must be sacrificed.
But Renshaw did not hesitate. The other had planned and willingly carried out a diabolical scheme of robbery and murder—even up to the time they were surprised had plainly shown a resolve to rob him of his share of the undertaking. Why should he sacrifice his own life for the benefit of such a worthless ungrateful scoundrel?
Nothing is quicker than thought. In that moment of deadly peril—in the mad heat of a race for life—swifter than the lightning flash there swept through his mind the promise Violet had exacted from him during that last ride together. “Promise that you will stand my friend. Promise that if ever you can help me you will.” And with it there flashed a serious doubt as to whether it would in fact be the act of a friend to be instrumental in placing her at the mercy of such an unprincipled rascal as Maurice Sellon.
But to this succeeded a far graver consideration. The last Mass in the little church at Fort Lamport—doubly solemn because perforce so seldom attended—the white-headed old priest and his simple, straightforward counsels, and above all at that moment the words, intoned in the Sunday’s epistle, “Sed si esurierit inimicus tuus, ciba illum; si sitit, potum da illi.” (“But if thine enemy be hungry, give him to eat; if thirsty, give him to drink.”)
Renshaw’s Christianity was of pure gold. He did not hesitate now.
“Jump up,” he said, dismounting, and helping the other to gain his own saddle, “I’ll run alongside.”
The pursuers had now doubled the spur which had afforded temporary concealment to the fugitives. At sight of one of these on foot, they set up a shrill yell of triumph, and streamed down the declivity.
The latter was fearfully steep. No horse could put his best pace forward without going head over heels, to a dead certainty.
“Turn off to the right, quick!” said Renshaw. At the same moment he was conscious of a slight pricking in the foot. But he heeded it not.
By the above “double” they gained a slight advantage. Unless, however, they could reach ground more level before the pursuers should come within bow-shot, their fate was sealed.
On, on swept the wild man-hunt; nearer, nearer came the shrill yells of the savages. The twang of bow-strings now was heard. The elf-like little demons were already beginning to discharge their deadly, poisoned shafts.
But hope, well-nigh dead in the breasts of the fugitives, arose once more. The scarp of the mountain-side became less steep. In a minute or two they would gain the comparatively level and winding valley by which they had approached. The Korannas seeing this, redoubled their efforts.
But so, too, did the fugitives. The horse-hoofs thundered down the slope, the staunch steed tearing at his bit, and snorting with mingled excitement and apprehension.
The leaping, bounding crowd of hideous barbarians came shambling down like a troop of apes, in hot pursuit, eagerly anticipating the sport of tearing limb from limb the two white invaders. On—on!
At last! The valley was gained. On comparatively level ground the speed of the horse would tell. Yet it would not do to loiter. All manner of short cuts would be known to their enemies; short cute which these human apes in their native wilds could take across the mountains, and arrive at a given point more quickly than a horseman. Our adventurers had good reason to fear such an eventuality. There was no time to be lost.
“Let me hold on to the stirrup leather, Sellon,” said Renshaw. “I can get along at twice the pace then. I’m beginning to feel rather blown now.”
There was that about Sellon’s acquiescence which seemed to show that had the danger been more pressing, it would not have been so readily accorded. Nothing easier than to spur on the horse and dart away. And he still had the great diamond in his possession. But the shouts of the pursuers seemed already growing fainter behind.
The sun was setting. Peak and mountain-wall were gleaming golden in the parting light, but down there in the kloof the darkling grey of evening had already fallen. In half an hour it would be night. Yet they slackened not in their flight. The clinking flash of the horse-hoofs rasped the stony way, but the yelling of the pursuers had died away completely. Still it would not do to slacken their efforts.
Suddenly Renshaw running alongside stumbled, then staggered a few yards and sank to the ground. A curious numbed feeling had come into his legs. They had literally given way beneath him. As he tried to rise, he was conscious of feeling half paralysed.
“Come along, man!” cried the other, impatiently. “Why, what’s the row?”
“This!” he said, slowly, pointing to a small puncture in his boot just on the instep. “I felt the sting when you first came to grief. I’ve been pinked by a poisoned arrow.”
The place was a wild one, shut in between lofty cliffs, gloomy now with the falling shadows of night. Renshaw knew that he would never leave it alive.
“Good-bye, Sellon,” he said, the stupor deepening upon him even as he spoke. “Don’t bother any more about me. You’re on the right track now, and must find your way as best you can. Go on and leave me.”
“Nonsense, old chap—make an effort, and try what you can do.”
But Renshaw shook his head. “No,” he said. “I cannot even get up. You must take care of yourself now. Go on and leave me.”
Sellon looked at him for a moment without a word. Then he—went on.