STRONG SPRINTS AND GAINS A LAP
Jack was at my side in a moment.
"Quick," he whispered "let's mount and be after him; I shall never be happy again until I have kicked that fellow within an inch of his grave!"
We dashed into the wood for our horses—they were not where we had left them. Of course they were not; the man would have been a fool to leave us our horses—we might have raced into Vryburg before him, and got him arrested! Strong was about as perfect an example of a scoundrel as you would find in Africa or any other continent, but no fool!
We stood and stamped and murdered our native language, diving to the lowest depths of our vocabularies for expressions of hatred and rage and of abuse, and the promise of future dire vengeance. We still stood and raged, when suddenly Strong came riding back.
"You have disobeyed orders," he said; "don't blame me for enforcing discipline. Go back to your place, you—Henderson, or whatever your name is!—hands up, you other!"
"I shall have it out of you, one day, for this, you infernal scoundrel," said Jack, whose temper was now beyond his control. "Get down and fight me on the ground—you may have your revolver, I'll use my fists."
"You fool!" rejoined Strong with an oath; "a man does not ask a leopard to spit out his teeth before attacking him. Go back to your place, I tell you, or I fire!"
Jack did not move.
"You are a murderer already," he said, "and you know it. What have you done with Clutterbuck and his money, you scoundrel? That's his pistol you hold; do you think I don't know it? Never fear, you shall hang one day, my friend!"