“As they generally do when there is fair play,” replied Ingleborough quietly. “Keep a sharp look-out forward, and I’ll keep on casting an eye back at the kopje.”
The ridge was only about a couple of miles distant from their previous night’s resting-place, proving to be fairly high, but with a gradual slope: while just as they reached the spot where the ascent began Ingleborough turned in his saddle from a long look-out backwards.
“This is like wringing one’s own neck,” he cried. “Now then, let’s canter up this bit, and as soon as we have topped it we need not be so cautious. Ready?”
“Yes,” cried West.
“Then off! Steady! No galloping; a gentle canter.”
It was fortunate for the pair that they did not breathe their horses, but rode up the gentle slope at a regular lady’s canter, to find the ridge pleasantly fringed with a patch of open woodland, through which their steeds easily picked their way, and on to the farther slope, which was more dotted with forest growth; but there was nothing to hinder their rate of speed—in fact, the horses began to increase the pace as a broad grassy stretch opened before them.
The moment they passed out of the woodland on to the open space West uttered a word of warning and pressed his pony’s side, for the first glance showed him that they had come right upon a Boer laager which was in the course of being broken up. Oxen were being in-spanned, men were tightening the girths of their ponies, and preparations were in progress everywhere for an advance in some direction.