"In any case," remarked Wilmshurst, "the two spoors lead the same way, so we'll carry on."
Half a mile further the tracks separated, the older ones continuing straight on, those of the boots breaking away to the left.
After a brief debate the pursuers decided to follow the latter spoor. This they followed for another four miles until it vanished on an expanse of hard, sun-baked ground.
"We're close to the Kiwa," announced one of the patrol, who had pushed on ahead for fifty yards. "There's a kraal over yonder, and I can see the water between the trees."
Into the native village the pursuers rode, to hear a tale of woe from the headman. An armed German had passed through not an hour previously. He had demanded food and native beer; he had made no attempt to pay for the articles, and out of sheer mischief had set fire to a hut. Commandeering a canoe he had compelled the natives to ferry him across the river, and the four blacks who manned the craft had just returned with the news that he had gone into the bush.
"What was the German like?" asked a Rhodesian, who spoke the language of the natives with the utmost fluency.
The headman began to give an elaborate and detailed description, but it was soon evident that the pursuers were on the wrong track.
"Dash it all!" exclaimed Wilmshurst impetuously. "We've lost the fellow—what's that, Bela Moshi?"
"Go ober dem water one-time quick, sah; den you catch Bosh-bosh as him go for run away."
"That's a smart idea," declared Dudley, never backward in giving credit for other persons' ideas.