“Why, he went and turned in alongside of a man who was stone deaf in one ear, and half in the other, so it didn’t matter. Fullerton is a terror to snore, too, and with a little more practice he’ll be as good as the other man. Just listen to him.”
“Eh? What’s that about me?” ejaculated the object of this remark, starting up spasmodically, and rubbing his eyes. “Why, I believe I’ve been asleep.”
“I don’t know about that, old chap,” laughed Wyndham. “What we do know is that you must have worked off a biggish contract in the plank sawing line, since we last heard the sound of your manly voice. Don’t we, Miss Vidal?”
“Well, this scooting through the air—hot air too—makes one snoozy,” explained Fullerton, uttering a cavernous yawn. “Hallo! I must have been asleep a good time, we’re at Skrine’s already.”
They had topped a rise, and now on the slope beneath, and in front, stood two or three buildings, with the usual native huts and goat kraal behind. But about the place no sign of life showed.
“Great Scott! I believe there isn’t a soul on the place,” said Wyndham anxiously. “No, I thought not,” as they rattled up to the door, and saw that it was securely shut, and that of the stable padlocked. Then, putting his head round the tent of the waggon, “Sergeant!”
“Sir?” answered the non-com. trotting up.
“Fall back just out of earshot with your men, and do a little language for us, will you? We can’t, we’ve got ladies with us. Skrine’s store’s no good. Skrine’s away and his idiotic stable’s locked up. No use outspanning here.”
The police sergeant spluttered—and those in the waggon laughed. Yet not very light-heartedly. It was really a nuisance, for it meant that they must push on another stage to the Kezane Store—the original plan, but one which Wyndham had already recognised that Langrishe was right in advising him to abandon; for the heat and the pace had already told on the mules.
They would have laughed less light-heartedly, or rather they would not have laughed at all, had they known that about a mile back, and only a few hundred yards from the road, the bodies of Skrine and three other men, who had fled thus far for their lives, were lying among the bushes, their skulls smashed, and their poor faces hacked and gory beyond recognition, stamped with the ghastly imprint of their awful death-agony, staring upward to the serene and cloudless blue of heaven.