In the midst of his investigations Tari Barl approached with a self-satisfied smile on his ebony features.
"Askari him foots, sah!" he reported, holding up three fingers of his right hand to indicate that he had discovered the spoor of three of the German native soldiery.
"H'm!" muttered Dudley. "That's rotten news. New spoor, Tarry Barrel?"
The Haussa nodded vehemently, and led his officer to the footprints.
Examination showed that three natives had been following the spoor of the two naval airmen. The firm tread of the latter—for at that stage of the journey they were comparatively fresh—was partly obliterated by the typical imprints of a black walking stealthily on his toes, for the impress of the heels hardly occurred. The Askaris had abandoned the trail a short distance from the brow of the hill, for there were marks where they had stood and debated, and the spoor leading in a north-westerly direction showed that they had gone by a different route from the one they had followed. This track did not lead in the direction of the stranded seaplane, so Wilmshurst conjectured that the Askaris had made straight for their main body, possibly with the intention of bringing men to recover the trophy.
Again the subaltern levelled his glasses and swept the skyline. Wending their way down a bare kloof were about two hundred armed blacks and three men in European garb riding in the centre of the column.
"MacGreg him dar, sah!" exclaimed Bela Moshi.
"Nonsense!" replied Wilmshurst, yet in his heart he was not at all sure but that the Haussa was right.
"MacGreg him make palaver with Bosh-bosh," declared the sergeant.
It was a contest between a pair of high-powered field glasses and the eyesight of a native. Vainly Wilmshurst wiped the lenses and looked and looked again without being able to satisfy himself that Bela Moshi's statement was correct.