They seemed to have clustered together in a confused pattern, all around the first spoor. It was as plain as the title page of a book. They had struck the two foot marks here and had halted 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.