There was a crackle of undergrowth, and a white-clad figure stepped out of the bush with something that caught the moonlight and glinted in its hand. Nares moved forward, and in another moment or two stopped by Ormsgill's side.
"I might have expected something of the kind, but I scarcely fancied you were so near," he said. "Anyway, I should not have supposed a white man could have crept up on us as you have done."
Ormsgill's smile was a trifle grim. "Most white men have not been hunted for their life," he said. "As a rule it's prudent to take precautions in the bush. It was not you I expected to see."
"Still, I have come a long way after you."
"Then we'll go back to camp," said Ormsgill. "Bring your boys along."
He sent a hoarse call ringing through the shadows of the bush, and then turned to his companion as if in explanation.
"One or two of the boys have Sniders, and their nerves might be a trifle unsteady," he said, "I can't get them to keep their finger off the trigger."
"Sniders?" said Nares.
Ormsgill laughed. "There are, it seems, a few of them in the country. I have now and then come across American rifles, too. I don't know how they got here, and it's not my business, but it is generally believed that officials now and then acquire a competence by keeping a hand open and their eyes shut."
Nares, who asked no more questions, followed him through the creepers and undergrowth until he turned and pointed to a stalwart negro standing close against a mighty trunk, who lowered his heavy rifle with a grin. Then the faint glow of a smoldering fire became visible, and Ormsgill stopped where the moonlight streamed down upon the ground sheet spread outside a little tent.