“No,” he said, in reply to a question from West, “I can’t make out anything, only that we are going south-west. The country is so big, you see. All I can say is that we must be going right. We’re making for the river, and we can’t do better. It may be many, many miles away still!”
“Well, let’s keep on. There’s one comfort: the enemy don’t seem to be after us.”
“No,” said Ingleborough, after a good look back, and speaking very drily; “they don’t seem to be, but I don’t trust them. They mean to run us down; but we’ll give them their work first.”
In this spirit the fugitives rode steadily on hour after hour till the evening came, and then there was nothing for it but to look out for some halting-place with cover and feed for the ponies.
“We can’t keep on without giving them a rest,” said Ingleborough; “for we may have to ride all day to-morrow.”
“What?” cried West. “You surely don’t think we’re so far off still?”
“I don’t know anything, lad,” replied Ingleborough; “for, as I said before, the country is so big, and it is quite possible that we may have two or three days’ journey before us yet.”
“But food—rest?” faltered West.
“My eyes are wandering everywhere in search of food,” replied Ingleborough, “and I keep on hoping to come upon a farmhouse somewhere in sight. That will mean food, either given, bought, or taken by threatening with our rifles. As to the rest, we’ll have that when we get into Kimberley.”
Night fell without a sign of spruit, pool, or farm; but it was a bright, clear time, with the stars giving them sufficient light to keep on in the hope that was growing desperate that they must soon come upon some stream. But they hoped in vain, and the ponies at last began to grow sluggish and indisposed to proceed whenever some patch of bush was reached in the midst of the dried-up expanse.