“Then come on, man; with a trail like those wheel-marks before us we can overtake them before dark;” and without more words, Webster strode rapidly on, soon to disappear into the waggon road, which struck into the bush beyond.
Hume, however, stood by the dead fire, resting on his gun as though stupefied, but his keen eyes, ranging over every inch of ground, belied this. So far from being dazed, his faculties were fully alert, and presently he began quartering the ground in widening circles until he reached the edge of the bush, when he stopped under a spreading mimosa and keenly examined the ground beneath. Stooping, he picked up a half-consumed cigarette, and then went at a trot after Webster, whom he met returning in a state of white fury.
“You take it very coolly,” growled Webster, “lingering like this, when every minute is precious. The trail has been blotted out by a thousand hoof-marks, and there is no more sign than a ship makes on the water. Why the devil don’t you suggest something?”
“Look here,” said Hume, holding out the fragment of cigarette.
“This is no time to trifle,” said Webster, eyeing the thing impatiently.
“No Boer smokes cigarettes.”
“Well?”
“Portuguese do.”
“What! Good heavens! Has Gobo taken her off?”
Hume ground his teeth.