“I’m your man, Matterson,” said Trask, briskly, having nearly got into his clothes. “I’ll take a hand in this game.”
“Thanks. I was going to ask you. George and Kleinbooi are getting up the horses now. We must start as soon as ever they are here.”
“What gees have the niggers taken, Brian?” I asked.
“Why, Beryl’s horse, Meerkat, for one, the bay colt, and the third’s uncertain.”
Beryl’s horse! Here was an additional incentive to the undertaking, I thought.
“Dumela spoored them easily to Sand Drift,” went on Brian, “and then it got too dark. If the old fool had come straight back at once and told us, we should have saved several hours; but not he. One of Stoffel Pexter’s people told him they’d seen three mounted Kafirs and two on foot go through just above the drift with a span of large bonte oxen. So we’d better go straight there and start on the spoor from there. One thing, we can’t miss it. It’s as broad as a waggon road.”
“Think they’ll show fight if we come up with them, Brian?” I said.
“Don’t know. We’ll take our guns in case of accidents. John Kafir has more respect for an armed crowd than for an unarmed one. Now—if you fellows are ready, we’ll lose no time getting under way. They are bringing up the horses now,” as a trampling was heard without. “Put a few extra cartridges in your pocket, Holt, while I find a shooter for Trask.”
I came out on the stoep and—from another door so did Beryl.
“It’s too bad to rout you out of bed to start off like this on a midnight foray,” she said.