Again the native's fingers began the counting process.
"Well?" demanded Morton.
"I should say one hundred an' half dat number, all men wid some led horses. Dey killed all de 'boys' 'cept Pete, Moses, Dan'l, an' myself. It was horrible; but de baas would not fight, an' we got away. But where are your boots, baas? Your feet dey are bleedin', too, an' you look bad. Wounded?"
"Yes, a trifle, 'boy'—not much," replied Morton. "Have you any arms with you—knives or anything of that kind?"
Daniel, who was a forbidding-looking Kaffir considerably over six feet in height, pulled out a revolver from his trousers' pocket, and handing it to the New Zealander, said, "Dis belongs to Baas Jack, but I spec he is dead."
Morton took the weapon in his hand and examined it carefully. The pistol was branded with the mark of the British Small Arms Company, and was new and of heavy calibre.
"Any cartridges?" queried Morton.
"Plenty ob dem, baas," answered Daniel, producing a box which the trooper found contained fifty rounds. The Kaffir took the cartridges from a shooting coat that had evidently belonged to Mr. Lovat.
"You keep dat, baas," said Daniel, "if you will let us go wid you. We dare not go back to de Kopje Farm. I will now make you a pair ob boots dat will be all right."
Before Morton could say a word, the Kaffir plucked a number of large leaves from a shrub of the plantain species, and within a very short time, with the aid of a little string, had manufactured a pair of presentable sandals—if somewhat unshapely, at least comfortable.