“He has seen blood on the trail and can tell by the tracks on these rocks.”
“Tracks?” I said. “Where are they?”
He spoke to Jampot, who immediately put his finger on several places on the rocks.
I examined the spots closely, but could see nothing, not even when I used a prospecting-glass I had in my pocket. Yet this marvellous savage could distinguish spoor with his naked eye, and had spotted blood-marks on the trail while going at a smart canter in blazing sunshine, where I could only now and then just barely see hoof-marks. Jampot was now very keen to go on, so after we had given our horses a blow and a few go-downs of water it was a case of mount and canter.
Away we went, Jampot leading; but now he went slower, and occasionally swerved from his line, bending down and regarding the ground intently. We had only gone a couple of miles or so when he turned in his saddle and, with a grin on his face a fiend would have envied, pointed at a small clump of bushes to his right front, and made directly for them.
Drawing our revolvers, we followed, to find him dismounted, bending over the body of a dead man.
He was a fine-looking, clean-built young fellow, and seemed far too good for the game he had been playing. But there was no time for moralising; so, preventing Jampot from mutilating the remains, we again mounted, broke into a canter, and went on.
The weight they carried had now begun to tell on the troopers’ horses, and they showed signs of having had enough of it: and presently we came to a dead horse. He had been wantonly shot, and it made my blood boil to see the poor brute lie there.
We were now approaching a long bare line of hills, and suddenly Jampot let a yell out of him and pointed at them. I unslung my field-glasses, and could see three men, dismounted, leading their horses, nearly at the top of the range, and about three miles in front of us.
We at once gave our horses the spur and went for them.