Anderson was sobered in a second.
“No,” he said, bitterly, “but as far as I can see, it must come to that before we ‘ve done.”
“No, no, we won’t give up hope yet. Is there no hope?”
Anderson sat down beside him, and pointed silently to the horses. If ever poor beasts were done, were at their last gasp, they were, as they stood there, their noses touching the ground. The bushman’s slender equipment had been reduced to its scantiest proportions, and yet it seemed cruelty to force them to carry even those slender packs; even the canvas water-bags, dry as tinder now, hanging at their necks, were a heavy burden. Wiser than their masters they had crawled beneath the shade, scanty as it was, of the boxwood trees, and stood there patiently waiting—For what? For death and the pitiless crows patiently waiting overhead.
“Exactly,” Helm answered his companion’s unspoken thought, “but we can’t sit and wait like that. Man, we must try to get out of this at any rate. We cant sit here and wait for the crows.”
Anderson sighed heavily.
“What can we do?” he asked. “We must spell a bit. The horses are done. As it is I ‘m afraid yours will have to be left and well have to go on foot. There must be water about somewhere, for look at the crows; but we can’t find it, and we couldn’t have searched more carefully.”
“Why not shoot the old horse if he’s no good? His blood might—”
“Nonsense, man. Aren’t you bushman enough yet to know that drinking blood ‘s only the beginning of the end? Once we do that—”
“Well, after?” asked Helm.