With a stupendous effort the horse staggered another twenty yards; his hind legs gave way; he stopped, neighing pitifully.
Without hesitation Colin slipped to the ground. Relieved of the additional weight, Treacle started forward again, Sinclair running and holding on to Desmond's stirrup.
But this attempt to carry on was unavailing. The animal was done. It was a final spurt, and Treacle could do no more. First his front legs, and then his hind, collapsed. He rolled on his side on the hard ground, kicking in agony.
Desmond had slipped out of his saddle in time. His first act was to put the animal out of his pain, which he did by shooting him in the forehead. Then, thrusting another cartridge into the breech of his rifle, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his chum and prepared to put up a fight to a finish.
The two nearmost warriors were now but twenty paces off. Crouching behind their hide shields and thinking themselves thereby immune, they stopped and awaited the others to come up.
"Take the one on your right, Tiny," exclaimed Colin, bringing his rifle to his shoulder.
But before either lad could fire, two reports rang out almost simultaneously from a belt of scrub barely eighty yards away, and three of the natives staggered and fell face downwards.
The chums accounted for two more, and then the mysterious but friendly rifles began firing rapidly.
The pursuit was stayed. Of the men in the forefront of the chase only seven remained standing, and these took to their heels and fled towards the main body of Sibenga's warriors.
Colin and Desmond were not left long in doubt as to the identity of their rescuers, for above the reeds appeared the grinning faces of Tenpenny Nail and Blue Fly.