Chapter Five.
A Sublime Lie.
“Trooper Skelsey missing, sir.”
Such the terse report. The patrol had continued its retreat the night through, taking advantage of the known aversion of the Matabele—in common, by the way, with pretty nearly all other savages—to fighting in the dark. Now it was just daybreak, and the muster had been called—with the above result.
Where had he last been seen? Nobody knew exactly. He had formed one of the party left as a rear-guard. Sybrandt had, however, exchanged a few words with him since they had all rejoined the patrol. Some declared they had seen him since, but, as to time a general mistiness prevailed.
“Well, I can’t send back for him,” pronounced the commanding officer curtly. “He must take his chance. I’m not going to risk other men’s lives for the sake of one, and seriously weaken the patrol into the bargain.”
“If you don’t mind, Major,” said Blachland, who was standing by, “I’ll ride a mile or two back. I believe I can pick him up, and I’ve got the best horse of the few left us.”
“Guess you’ll need him,” interjected the American scout.
“Well, I can’t give you any men, Blachland,” said the Major. “No, not one single man. You go at your own risk.”
“I’ll take that. I’ve been into tighter corners before.”