It was not a quagga, but a horse!
“A horse!” exclaimed Willem as he stooped over the carcass to examine it. “It is not mine, thank God, nor yours neither.”
“That is rather a selfish remark of yours, Willem,” said Hendrik. “The horse belongs to some one. I can see a saddle-mark on its back.”
“May be,” muttered Willem, who thought nearly as much of his steed as his great roer. “For all that I’m glad it isn’t mine.”
They then proceeded to the vley, where the other horse was still struggling in the shallow water. As it was evidently unable to get to its feet, and wounded to the death, another shot was fired to release it from its misery.
Wondering to whom the two horses could belong, they returned to the camp-fire; both under the impression that they had destroyed enough of animal life for that night.
Early the next morning they left the pool, and, continuing down stream, within two hours reached the river they had been so long in search of. Here they determined to stop until the next day, and their horses were again tethered out; and, as they were somewhat wearied, they lay down to take repose under the shade of a mokhala tree. From this they were startled by the loud barking of Spoor’em and the calls of Congo.
Springing to their feet they found themselves surrounded by a party of about forty Africans, some armed with spears, while others carried bows and arrows.
From the hostile attitude of the new-comers the hunters saw that they meant mischief; and, seizing their guns, they determined to defend themselves to the last.