“A man?” exploded Bob. “You shot at a man?” Frank nodded. “It was that fellow who had it in for Wimba, I guess,” he said. “The one who charged him with murdering his pal. That Kikuyu thief, you know.”
With an effort, he pulled himself together, shook off Jack’s grip on his shoulder, and got up. “I poked my head out of the tent to call Matse,” he said, in a firmer voice. “The bearers have a big camp fire going. Between here and the camp fire I could see Wimba. He was approaching our tent. There was no mistaking his form, outlined against the glow of the fire. Then I saw a man spring up from the ground as Wimba passed and stalk after him.
“I was scared for Wimba, because the other obviously meant mischief. And it was plain Wimba was unaware of his presence. I didn’t want to yell a warning because his pursuer might leap on Wimba.
“So I started forward. But the fellow was creeping up on Wimba. I could see them both like silhouettes against the fire glow. There was no time to delay. I could see the rascal’s arm drawn back as if to bury a knife in poor old Wimba’s shoulders.”
“Then you shot?” asked Jack.
Frank nodded. “But I didn’t kill him,” he said. “I aimed to hit his upraised hand, and I guess I did.”
“But there were three shots,” objected Bob. “I counted them.”
“I shot over his head,” said Frank.
“What happened then?” asked Jack.
“He got away. And the bearers are chasing him.”