“What do you make of it?” said Ingleborough, scanning a mistily-seen dark line right away beneath the sun.
“Wagons trekking,” replied West quietly.
“Friends?”
“Who can say? I think not. Reinforcements and stores on the way to the besiegers, I should think.”
“I’m afraid you are right! Well, we had better let the nags feed while we lie down and watch, for I don’t think they have seen us yet.”
“Very well,” said West. “I’m tired of so much running away!”
The next minute they were lying amongst some stones and their ponies grazing, Ingleborough coolly filling his pipe and lighting it with a burning-glass, but keeping a watchful eye upon the long train of wagons and horsemen plodding along at the customary rate of about two miles an hour, and ready at any moment to spring upon his pony in case a party of the enemy should make up their minds to try and drive in the two ponies when they caught their eye.
This he knew was doubtful, for it was beginning to be a common sight upon the veldt—that of a wounded or worn-out horse or two picking up a scanty living from the grass and green points of the shrubs, while an investigation generally proved that the poor brutes were not worth the trouble of the ride.
Still, on the other hand, the suspicious nature of the Boers might prompt them to see whether riders were near the grazing animals, and an opportunity for capturing a prisoner or two be theirs.
The pair kept a keen look-out; but it seemed for a long time that they were to be left in peace, the long line of wagons and horsemen plodding steadily onward, completely blocking the way the bearers of the Kimberley despatch had to take.