On their way to the patch of rock and brush that was to be their last resting-place before making a dash for the beleaguered town, they struck upon the trail going north and south, and in two places scared off vultures from the carcass of an unfortunate ox, shrunken and dried in the sun till little but the bones and hide were left.
They were too distant to make out the smoke, but steadily increasing fire told plainly enough that they were quite near enough for a dash into the town when darkness set in that night.
“You think then that this will be the best way?” said West, as they reached their shelter without seeing a sign of danger.
“I am not sure yet!” replied Ingleborough. “In fact, I’m very doubtful whether we should not fail, for the place is certain to be surrounded by the enemy, and we should very likely be ridden or shot down.”
Oliver West laid his hand upon the despatch, pressing it so that the paper crackled beneath the cloth.
“Then we had better ride in as near as we dare, and then try and creep in at the darkest time.”
“Let’s pray for the clouds to be thick then!” said Ingleborough; “for the moon’s getting past the first quarter. Last night would have done exactly.”
“But we were not here. Hark at the firing!”
“Yes; it sounds as if Mafeking will be taken before we get there!”
“For goodness’ sake don’t talk like that!”