A SUBLIME LIE.

“Trooper Skelsey missing, sir.”

Such the terse report. The patrol had continued its retreat the night through, taking advantage of the known aversion of the Matabele in common, by the way, with pretty nearly all other savages to fighting in the dark. Now it was just daybreak, and the muster had been called with the above result.

Where had he last been seen? Nobody knew exactly. He had formed one of the party left as a rear-guard. Sybrandt had, however, exchanged a few words with him since they had all rejoined the patrol. Some declared they had seen him since, but, as to time a general mistiness prevailed.

“Well, I can’t send back for him,” pronounced the commanding officer curtly. “He must take his chance. I’m not going to risk other men’s lives for the sake of one, and seriously weaken the patrol into the bargain.”

“If you don’t mind, Major,” said Blachland, who was standing by, “I’ll ride a mile or two back. I believe I can pick him up, and I’ve got the best horse of the few left us.”

“Guess you’ll need him,” interjected the American scout.

“Well, I can’t give you any men, Blachland,” said the Major. “No, not one single man. You go at your own risk.”

“I’ll take that. I’ve been into tighter corners before.”

Here several men volunteered, including Percival West. These were curtly dismissed.

“I don’t want you, Percy,” said Blachland. “In fact I wouldn’t have you at any price excuse my saying so.” And there was a laugh, in the midst of which the young fellow gave way to the inevitable.

But there was another man who proved less amenable, and that was Justin Spence.

“Do let me go, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Skelsey and I prospected together once.”

There was a momentary awkwardness, for all knew that since they had been in the field together the missing man had refused to exchange a word with his former chum and partner, whom he declared, had behaved like an utter cad. In short Skelsey had proved more implacable than the man presumably most injured.

“No. Return to your duty at once.”

“I’ll blow my brains out then, and you’ll lose one more man at any rate.”

“Place Corporal Spence under arrest immediately,” said the Major sternly.

“Don’t be a fool, Spence,” said Blachland kindly. “You’d be more hindrance than help to me really and so would any one except Sybrandt, but we can’t take two scouts away at once.”

The commanding officer thought so too, and was in a correspondingly bad humour. But Blachland was far too valuable a man to gainsay in a matter of this kind, besides, he had a knack of getting his way. Now having got it, he lost no time in preparations or farewells. He simply started.

“His contract’s too big,” said the American, presently. “Guess we’ve nearly seen the last of him.”

“He’ll come through, you’ll see,” rejoined Sybrandt, confidently.

The while Blachland was riding along the backward track: not quite on it, but rather above, where possible; scanning every point with lynx-eyed vigilance. Once a glimpse of something lying across the track caused his pulses to beat quicker. Cautiously he rode down to it. Only an old sack dropped during the march. The spoor of the patrol was plain enough, but he remembered that the missing man suffered from fever, and had been slightly wounded during the earlier stages of the campaign. The possibilities were all that he had been overtaken with sudden faintness and had collapsed, unperceived by the rest in which case a lonely and desolate end here in the wilds, even if the more merciful assegai of the savage did not cut short his lingerings. And he himself had been too near such an end, deserted and alone, not to know the horror of it.

No blame whatever was due to the commanding officer in refusing to send back indeed he was perfectly right in so doing. The rules of war, like those of life, are stern and pitiless. For many days the patrol had fought its way through swarming enemies, and in all probability, would have to again. Weakened in strength, in supplies, and at this stage, with ammunition none too plentiful, its leaders could not afford to weaken it still further, and delay its advance, and risk another conflict, with the ultimate chance of possible massacre, for the sake of one man. That much was certain. And he, Hilary Blachland, who at one time would have endorsed the hard necessity without a qualm, hardened, ruthless, inexorable, why should he run such grave and deadly risk for the sake of one man who was only an acquaintance after all yet here he was doing so as a matter of course. What had changed him? He knew.

And the risk was great deadly indeed. The savages had hung upon the rear of the patrol right up to the fall of night, and the subsequent retreat. The bush was full of them, and in unknown numbers. It was to him a marvel and a mystery that he had as yet sighted none. Other sign, too, did not escape his practised understanding. There was no game about, none whatever and even the birds flitting from spray to spray were abnormally shy and wild. Now he could locate, some way ahead of him, the scene of yesterday’s fight.

Then an idea struck him. What if the missing man, confused by the spoor, had made for the river bank, intending to follow it? Deflecting to his right he crossed the track, and rode along it on the farther edge, minutely examining the ground.

Ha! Just as he thought. Footmarks the imprint of boots very ragged, half soleless boots the footprints of one man. These turned out of the spoor, and slightly at right angles took the direction of the river bank. There was no difficulty whatever in following them. In the deep, soft ground, rendered almost boggy in parts by the recent and continuous rains, their imprint was as the face of an open book. Blachland’s heart rose exceedingly. He would soon find the wanderer, mount him behind him on his horse and bring him back safely.

Then another thought struck him. Skelsey was no raw Britisher. He was a Natal man, and had been up-country, prospecting, for the last two or three years. Why the deuce then should he be unable to follow a plain broad spoor, for this seemed the only way of accounting for his deflection? Well, he would very soon overtake him now, so it didn’t matter.

Didn’t it? What was this? And Blachland, pulling in his horse, sat there in his saddle, his face feeling cold and white under its warm bronze. For now there were other footmarks and many of them. And these were the marks of naked feet.

They seemed to have clustered together in a confused pattern, all around the first spoor. It was as plain as the title page of a book. They had struck the two foot marks here and had halted to consult. Then they had gone on again not along the first spoor, but diagonally from it.

He himself adopted the same course, taking the other side of the single spoor. In this way if the missing man were travelling straight he would reach him first would reach him and bear him off before the destroyers now pursuing him like hounds should run into him. But it would be a near thing.

The dull hoarse roar of the swollen river sounded close in front. Louder and louder it grew. The missing man could not be far ahead now. Rising in his stirrups he gazed anxiously around. No sign. He dared not shout. The band of Matabele who were in pursuit of Skelsey could not be far distant on his left. He was almost on the river bank, and still no sign of the fugitive. Well, the roar of the water would prevent his voice from reaching far anyhow he would risk it.

“Skelsey! Where are you?” he called, but not loudly. “Skelsey!”

He listened intently. Was that an answer? Something between a cry and a groan and it was behind him.

He turned his horse, and as he did so, the thought occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap that the savages might already have butchered his comrade, and be lying in wait to take him with the least trouble and risk to themselves. Well, he must chance it, and the chances were about even.

“Skelsey! Where are you, old chap?” he called again in a low tone.

This time an answer came, but faintly.

“Here.”

Lying under a bush was the missing man. He raised his head feebly, and gazed with lack-lustre eyes at his would-be rescuer.

“Get up behind me, quick!” said the latter.

“Can’t. I’ve sprained my ankle. Can’t stand. I was going to crawl to the river and end it all.”

“Well, you’ve got to ride instead. Come, I’ll give you a hand. Quick, man! There are a lot of Matabele after you, I struck their spoors.”

The while he had been helping the other to rise. Skelsey groaned and ground his teeth with the pain. He was exhausted too, with starvation.

“Can’t help it. You must pull yourself together,” said Blachland, hoisting him into the saddle and himself mounting behind. “Now stick tight on for all you know how, for we’ve got to run for it.”

“Ping-ping!” A bullet hummed overhead, then another. The horse snorted and plunged forward, nearly falling. The ground was rough, the condition of the animal indifferent, and the double burden considerably too much for his strength. There followed another crash or two of rifles from behind, then no more. The savages reckoned their prey secure. They could easily distance a lean horse, badly overloaded, on such ground as this, without further expenditure of ammunition. Now they streamed forward through the bush to overtake and butcher the two fugitives.

Of the above Blachland was as fully aware as the pursuers themselves. There was no safety for two, not a ghost of a chance of it. For one there was a chance, and it fairly good. Which was that one to be?

“Jji Jji! Jji jji!” The hideous battle-hiss vibrated upon the air in deep-toned stridency. A glance over his shoulder. He could see the foremost of the savages ranging up nearer and nearer, assegais gripped ready to run in and stab. Which was that one to be?

In the flash of that awful moment a vision of Lyn rose before him Lyn, in her fair, sweet, golden-haired beauty. Was he never to see her again? Why not? A loosening of his hold of the man in the saddle in front of him, a slight push, and he himself was almost certainly safe. No human eye would witness the deed, least of all would it ever be suspected. On the contrary, all would bear witness how he had ridden back into grave peril to try and rescue a missing comrade, and Lyn would approve and even a happiness he had hardly as yet dared dream of might still be his. And it should.

“Can you stick on if I don’t have to hold you, Skelsey?”

“Yes. I think so. I’m sure I can.”

“Well, then, stick on for God’s sake, and go,” was the quick eager rejoinder. “I’m hit in two places mortally. I’m dead already, but you needn’t be. Good-bye.”

He slid to the ground. The horse, relieved of its double burden, shot forward, its pace accelerated by a stone, lightly hurled by its late owner, which struck it on the hindquarters. A glance convinced him that his comrade was now in comparative safely, and Hilary Blachland turned to await the onrushing mass of his ruthless foes single-handed, alone, and as yet, absolutely unhurt. His temptation had been sharp, searching and fiery. But his triumph was complete.