“How far to the fontein?” he said.
“One hour, baas,” was the reply.
“Is there plenty of grass?”
“Plenty, baas. Bullock much eat and drink.”
The information proved quite correct, for within the specified time—the team having stepped out more readily, guided as they were by their instinct to where water, grass, and rest awaited them—and soon after the great orange globe had risen above what looked like the rim of the world, the wagon was pulled up at the edge of a broad crack in the dusty plain, where the bottom of the spruit could be seen full of rich green grass besprinkled with flowers, through which ran the clear waters of an abundant stream.
A fire was soon lighted, a billy hung over it to boil, and Anson, after watching the team, which had dragged their load so well and so far, munching away at the juicy grass, began to get out the necessaries connected with his own meal.
“Hah!” he said softly, as he rubbed his hands; “sorry I haven’t got my two fellow-clerks to breakfast: it would have been so nice and Ugh!” he growled, shading his eyes to give a final look round, for there in the distance, evidently following the track by which he had come through the night, there was a little knot of horsemen cantering along, and from time to time there came a flash of light caused by the horizontal beams of the sun striking upon rifle-barrel or sword.
Anson’s hands dropped to his sides, and he looked to right, left, and behind him as if meditating flight. Then his eyes went in the direction of his oxen, freshly outspanned, but he turned frowningly away as he felt that even with the team already in their places, the lumbering bullocks could not have been forced into a speed which the horses could not have overtaken in a few yards at a canter.
Then he shaded his eyes again to have a good look at the party of horsemen.
“Police,” he said, in a hiss. “Yes, and that’s Norton. Hfff!”