The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 33

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 ma.s.sacre, 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 cl.u.s.tered together in a confused pattern, all around the first spoor. It was as plain as the t.i.tle 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 hoa.r.s.e 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-l.u.s.tre 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, a.s.segais 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 G.o.d'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 ma.s.s 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.

CHAPTER SIX.

HIS TRIUMPH.

In uttering that sublime lie, Hilary Blachland had set the seal to his triumph.

But for it his comrade would have refused to leave him, on that point he was sure, whereas to throw away his life for one who was dead already, would be an act of sheer lunacy on Skelsey's part. One must die or both, and he had elected to be that one. Yet the actual horror and sting of the death which now stared him in the face was indescribably terrible.

Instinctively he took cover behind a stone--for the ground here was open and broken. The Matabele, reckoning him a sure prey sooner or later, had stayed their forward rush, and, halting within the bush line, began to parley, and not altogether without reason, for there was something rather formidable in the aspect of this well-armed man, who although but one against their swarming numbers, was manifestly determined to sell his life very dearly indeed. They had some experience as to what that meant--and recently.

"Ho, Isipau!" called out a great voice. "Come now and talk with some of your old friends."

"I think not, Ziboza," came the answer. "For the looks of most of you are not friendly."

"Are you come to capture the Great Great One, Isipau?" jeered another voice, and a shout of derision backed up the words.

"No. I came to find a comrade who was left behind sick. I have found him--and now, _amadoda_, when I return I can speak more than one good word on behalf of the Great Great One, and of those who suffered me to return when they might have given me some trouble."

"When thou returnest, Isipau!" roared several of the young warriors with a burst of mocking laughter. "When thou returnest! _Au_! But that will be never."

"n.o.body knows. I do not--you do not. But it will be better for all here if I do return."

For a while there was no response, save another burst of laughter. Then Ziboza spoke:

"Come now over to us, Isipau. We will take thee to the Black Elephant."

Blachland pondered. Could he trust them? If they actually meant to take him to the King, then indeed he stood a good chance, for he did not believe that Lo Bengula would allow him to be harmed, and he did believe that once face to face with him he could persuade the fugitive King to surrender. But could he trust them, that was the crux?

Rapidly he ran over the situation within his mind. This Ziboza he knew fairly well as an inveterate hater of the whites, one of those moreover who had perpetually urged upon Lo Bengula the necessity of murdering all white men in his country. He thought too, of the moment, when disarmed and helpless, he should stand at their mercy, and what that "mercy"

would mean why more than one act of hideous barbarity which he himself had witnessed, was sufficient to remind him. Moreover, even while thus balancing probabilities, certain sc.r.a.ps of smothered conversation reached his ears. That decided him. He would not place himself within their power. It only remained to sell his life dearly.

If only it were near the close of the day, he could hold them off for a while, and perhaps, under cover of darkness, escape. But it was hardly yet full noon. They could get round him and rake him with a cross fire.

Bad marksmen as they were, they could hardly go on missing him all day.

"Come then, Isipau!" called out Ziboza. "Lay down thy weapons and come."