Sibenga's men were now so close that he could distinctly see the whites of their eyes. Realising that the lad was out of ammunition, they came on unhesitatingly. The rifle was now no better, and probably less efficacious, than their own keen-edged weapons.
The thud of a horse's hoofs diverted Colin's attention. Glancing over his shoulder he saw, to his great surprise, that Desmond had ridden back to him. He felt a wave of resentment; it seemed an absurd act on Tiny's part to barge in and face a peril from which he could have escaped. At the same time, he was grateful to his chum for his whole-hearted devotion.
Making no attempt to dismount, Tiny wheeled his horse and reined in the now-tractable animal.
"Jump up, old man!" he shouted.
Sinclair lost no time in accepting the invitation. Now that he had his face turned from the warriors he was in a "blue funk." Almost mechanically slinging his rifle across his back, he grasped Tiny's saddle and flung himself over Treacle's back.
"Right-o!" he shouted.
Desmond set spurs. The wiry animal responded nobly, while his twin burden, bending low as half a dozen assegais whizzed perilously close to them, were in no happy state of mind with the possibility of feeling sharp steel spear-heads plunging into their backs.
In a few minutes Treacle drew out of throwing range, or else the warriors thought it an unnecessary act to hurl their assegais, as they stood an excellent chance of overtaking the doubly-laden horse.
"We're doing all right!" exclaimed Tiny breathlessly. "Only about four miles more."
Colin, glancing at the bronze-coloured natives, did not feel so sure about it. Their pursuers were bunching together. Those on the extreme tips of the "horn" had already relinquished pursuit, but about thirty were covering the ground at a pace only slightly less than that of the horse. They could keep that up for miles. The question was whether Treacle could be relied upon to maintain his speed, hampered as he was by an additional rider.