But at that moment Poeskop looked round over his shoulder towards the entrance to the gorge.
"They're coming!" he cried. "I shall run your pace after all. Now we must go till we drop. If I were only a hartebeest and you a springbok! Run, baas, run!"
Guy glanced back, and saw four mounted figures just emerging from the dark gorge on to the yellow plain. Broad daylight was upon the veldt. It was evident that their pursuers must have already sighted them. The situation was becoming serious indeed. They ran stoutly on, saying not a word, and directing their course for a clump of bush and low timber which, with two or three other similar patches, rose like islets upon the sea of plain.
But their pursuers were now galloping hard, and were getting over the ground just twice as fast as the two footmen toiling along in front of them. Already the hoof-strokes of the galloping horses could be distinguished by the two runners.
"Baas," gasped Poeskop, "we shall just reach the timber, and that's all. We shall want three minutes to get breath and steady ourselves."
Well and stoutly as they ran, it seemed as if the last three hundred yards that separated them from the islet of bush never would be accomplished. The haven was reached at last, and the two fugitives plunging in, sank down behind a couple of trees having a low screen of bush in front of them, and prepared for action.
The nearest of their pursuers, Karl Engelbrecht, was now but three hundred yards away. A hundred yards behind him galloped a native servant; then followed Minho, the Portuguese, and another mounted native. Engelbrecht drew rein, jumped from his horse, and taking quick aim, fired at the two runners just as they took shelter behind the trees. The bullet whistled idly by. The Boer waited till his comrades came up, and then, spreading out a few yards apart, they advanced at a walk upon the islet, their plan evidently being to envelop it. By the time they had approached within two hundred yards, the fugitives had recovered breath, and were prepared for them.
"Baas," whispered Poeskop, a fierce light gleaming in his set face, "you are the best shot. Fire first. Take plenty time."
Guy nodded. They were lying down; and resting his elbows on the ground and putting up his Martini rifle, he aimed at the big figure of the Boer, who, now mounted again, was advancing upon the patch of covert. Two hundred and fifty yards was the distance. The ivory rifle-sight was upon the Boer's body, Guy's finger upon the trigger. Should he fire? No, the lad thought; he would not spill the man's blood if he could help it. He lowered the rifle, and, taking aim at Engelbrecht's horse, pulled. It was a long shot, but a pretty good target. The result was, perhaps, most unexpected to Karl Engelbrecht himself, who had scarcely anticipated much resistance. At the loud report of the Martini, his horse fell instantly to the ground. In the next minute the poor beast was choking in its death struggle. Karl stumbled to his feet with a big Dutch oath, dropped in the grass, and, taking aim for the place whence the shot had been fired, let drive. It was a good shot; so good that the Westley-Richards .450 sporting bullet hit the tree behind which Guy crouched, striking it a terrific smack, within six inches of the lad's face.
Guy shifted his position and prepared for another shot. Meanwhile, Poeskop had got the Boer within range, and had let drive three successive shots in such close proximity to Engelbrecht's carcass that that worthy had deemed it wise to beat a hasty retreat. Worming himself through the grass, therefore, Engelbrecht crawled back a hundred paces or more, where he was joined by Antonio Minho, who, from that comparatively long range, now fired a shot or two at the patch of bush in front of them.