Just as the last streaks of yellow light were fading into a mass of purplish gray, Morton begged his major to allow him to creep forward in the direction of the farm for the purpose of reconnoitring, and the officer assented.
Slinging his rifle behind his back, the scout slowly edged his way to where the stricken Boer lay on the veldt. The Free Stater was dead, for a couple of bullets had pierced his brain.
He was a rough-looking man with unkempt hair and beard, and the daring trooper, still prostrate, turned him over and coolly began to search his pockets.
Morton abstracted several documents, which he thrust into an inner pocket of his khaki tunic, after which he retraced his way to his comrades, still crawling on his hands and knees.
He handed the papers to Major Salkeld, who determined to advance at once on Van Donnop's farmstead. In answer to an interrogation from his superior, Morton explained that he had not seen any Boers except the dead one, and that the Dutch settler's farm betrayed no sign of life.
Ten minutes later, the New Zealanders were drawn up in front of the farm buildings, and Morton, always the first to volunteer for any hazardous duty, went straight to the front door of the house and began hammering with the butt of his rifle upon its stout panels.
Footsteps could be heard in the passage, and a voice called out in Dutch, "Who is there?"
"Open the door instantly," commanded Morton brusquely, "or I'll blow it in."
The door was unfastened by a man of immense girth of chest. His physiognomy showed his Dutch extraction.
"What do you want?" demanded the farmer gruffly. This time he spoke in English.