Never before had Oscar felt as timid as he did that night.
He gave every clump of bushes and every stone that was large enough to conceal a lurking beast of prey a wide berth, and did not draw an easy breath until he saw the glare of the camp-fires shining through the trees in front of him. By that time it was pitch-dark.
The only persons he saw as he rode up the bank, after watering his horse at the fountain, were the driver and fore-loper, who ran up to the Kaffir, chattering in chorus, swinging their arms around their heads, and pointing toward the opposite side of the water-course.
They were full of news, and Oscar, who thought that something alarming must have happened during his absence, waited impatiently to learn what it was. He could gain no idea of it from the language of the Hottentots, for that was perfectly unintelligible to him, nor from the countenance of the Kaffir, who did nothing but grin while he listened.
"Well," said he when the hubbub had subsided so that he could make himself heard, "what is it?"
"Mack—he gone," said Thompson sententiously.
"Gone?" repeated Oscar, a suspicion of the truth breaking upon him at once.
The Kaffir grinned again, and the Hottentots nodded their heads and began backing off, as if they expected a great ebullition of fury on Oscar's part.
"Gone?" said the boy again. "Did he go on foot?"
"No; took he hoss and gun," replied Thompson.