No further thought of their quarrel now. That must be put aside in the
face of the common enemy.
They had several hundred yards of stiff uphill work before they could
reach the horses. The savages were still nearly a mile distant, but
above, and running on the level. It would be a near race.
As soon as they perceived that their approach was discovered the
barbarians set up a shrill yell, and redoubled their efforts to arrive
in time to cut off our two adventurers from their horses. It became a
stirring race for life.
Up the steep mountain-side they pressed. Renshaw, being in hard
training, easily took the lead. The other began to pant and blow in
most distressful fashion almost before he was half way.
"Keep up, Sellon. Put on a spurt, if you can," said Renshaw, dropping
on one knee and taking aim at the onrushing crowd.
The weapon cracked. It was a long shot, but he had fired "into the
brown." There was a splash of dust, just short of the mob. Then the
savages scattered, leaping and bounding like bucks. One could be seen
crawling on the sward, evidently badly wounded by the ball in its
ricochet.
But the check was only momentary. On pressed the pursuers, now in more
scattered formation, zigzagging along the rocks at the base of the
cock's-comb ridge, nearer, nearer. They were a hideous group--some
squat and monkey-like, others long and gaunt--grotesque mud-coloured
figures, their ragged wool and staring, horn-like ears given them the
aspect of so many mediaevally depicted fiends. They were armed with
assegais and bows. Already many of them were fitting arrows to the
string.
Sellon, hardly able to put one foot before the other, had reached his
horse. Staggering with exhaustion, he just managed to throw himself
into the saddle. But he had completely lost his head.
"Down the gully, Sellon--it's our only chance--but it's neck or nothing.
Follow my lead--and--keep your head."
It crossed Renshaw's mind to deliver another shot. But it would only be
precious time lost. There were at least fifty of their assailants. One
shot, however fatal, would not stop them, and it was of the first
importance to keep beyond range of the poisoned arrows.
Rugged as the gully had seemed in ascending, it was a tenfold more
formidable business now. It was like riding down a flight of stairs,
with the difference that here the evenness of the stairs was lacking.
Large boulders and small ones, sharp stones and smooth stones, loose
stones and rubble--all had to be got over somehow. And then, that awful
precipice at the bottom!
And now the cliffs resounded with the shrill yells of the pursuers.
They had reached the head of the gully, and, dropping from rock to rock
with the agility of monkeys, were gaining on the two white men.
Renshaw, turning warily in his saddle, while still keeping an eye on the
guidance of his steed, got in one revolver shot at a gaunt Koranna, who
had sprung to the top of a boulder, and was on the point of launching a
spear. The fellow threw up his arms and toppled backwards, but not
before he had hurled his weapon, which, inflicting a flesh wound on
Sellon's horse, caused the animal to squeal and bound forward.
Perfectly unmanageable, frenzied with pain and terror, the horse shot
past Renshaw, his rider vainly endeavouring to restrain him. One
stride--two--three--the horse was among the loose rubble on the cliffs
brow. There was a prodigious plunging of hoofs--a cloud of dust and
gravel--a slide--a frantic struggle--then with a scream, which even at
that stirring moment curdled the listeners' blood, the poor steed
disappeared into space--while his rider, who, in the very nick of time,
had slipped to the ground, stood bewildered and pale at the thought of
the frightful danger he had escaped.
But there was peril enough behind to allow no time for thought. The
barbarians, profiting by the moment's confusion, came swarming down the
rocks, yelling and hissing like fiends. A shower of assegais and arrows
came whizzing about the ears of the fugitives.
The latter, in about three bounds, had cleared the fearful "elbow"
overhanging the abyss, and which they had crossed so circumspectly in
cold blood the previous day. Rounding it safely, they had gained one
advantage; they were out of arrow range for the moment.
"Lay hold of my stirrup-leather," cried Renshaw, "and run alongside.
There's clear going now for some way to come."
But Sellon had sunk to the ground groaning with pain.
"I can't," he gasped. "My ankle's sprained."
Here was a situation. A dismounted comrade with a sprained ankle,
unable to walk even, let alone run; a crowd of bloodthirsty barbarians
close behind swarming down the mountain-side in pursuit. Surely one of
the two must be sacrificed.
But Renshaw did not hesitate. The other had planned and willingly
carried out a diabolical scheme of robbery and murder--even up to the
time they were surprised had plainly shown a resolve to rob him of his
share of the undertaking. Why should he sacrifice his own life for the
benefit of such a worthless ungrateful scoundrel?
Nothing is quicker than thought. In that moment of deadly peril--in the
mad heat of a race for life--swifter than the lightning flash there
swept through his mind the promise Violet had exacted from him during
that last ride together. "Promise that you will stand my friend.
Promise that if ever you can help me you will." And with it there
flashed a serious doubt as to whether it would in fact be the act of a
friend to be instrumental in placing her at the mercy of such an
unprincipled rascal as Maurice Sellon.
But to this succeeded a far graver consideration. The last Mass in the
little church at Fort Lamport--doubly solemn because perforce so seldom
attended--the white-headed old priest and his simple, straightforward
counsels, and above all at that moment the words, intoned in the
Sunday's epistle, "_Sed si esurierit inimicus tuus, ciba illum; si
sitit, potum da illi_." ("But if thine enemy be hungry, give him to
eat; if thirsty, give him to drink.")
Renshaw's Christianity was of pure gold. He did not hesitate now.
"Jump up," he said, dismounting, and helping the other to gain his own
saddle, "I'll run alongside."
The pursuers had now doubled the spur which had afforded temporary
concealment to the fugitives. At sight of one of these on foot, they
set up a shrill yell of triumph, and streamed down the declivity.
The latter was fearfully steep. No horse could put his best pace
forward without going head over heels, to a dead certainty.
"Turn off to the right, quick!" said Renshaw. At the same moment he was
conscious of a slight pricking in the foot. But he heeded it not.
By the above "double" they gained a slight advantage. Unless, however,
they could reach ground more level before the pursuers should come
within bow-shot, their fate was sealed.
On, on swept the wild man-hunt; nearer, nearer came the shrill yells of
the savages. The twang of bow-strings now was heard. The elf-like
little demons were already beginning to discharge their deadly, poisoned
shafts.
But hope, well-nigh dead in the breasts of the fugitives, arose once
more. The scarp of the mountain-side became less steep. In a minute or
two they would gain the comparatively level and winding valley by which
they had approached. The Korannas seeing this, redoubled their efforts.
But so, too, did the fugitives. The horse-hoofs thundered down the
slope, the staunch steed tearing at his bit, and snorting with mingled
excitement and apprehension.
The leaping, bounding crowd of hideous barbarians came shambling down
like a troop of apes, in hot pursuit, eagerly anticipating the sport of
tearing limb from limb the two white invaders. On--on!
At last! The valley was gained. On comparatively level ground the
speed of the horse would tell. Yet it would not do to loiter. All
manner of short cuts would be known to their enemies; short cute which
these human apes in their native wilds could take across the mountains,
and arrive at a given point more quickly than a horseman. Our
adventurers had good reason to fear such an eventuality. There was no
time to be lost.
"Let me hold on to the stirrup leather, Sellon," said Renshaw. "I can
get along at twice the pace then. I'm beginning to feel rather blown
now."
There was that about Sellon's acquiescence which seemed to show that had
the danger been more pressing, it would not have been so readily
accorded. Nothing easier than to spur on the horse and dart away. And
he still had the great diamond in his possession. But the shouts of the
pursuers seemed already growing fainter behind.
The sun was setting. Peak and mountain-wall were gleaming golden in the
parting light, but down there in the kloof the darkling grey of evening
had already fallen. In half an hour it would be night. Yet they
slackened not in their flight. The clinking flash of the horse-hoofs
rasped the stony way, but the yelling of the pursuers had died away
completely. Still it would not do to slacken their efforts.
Suddenly Renshaw running alongside stumbled, then staggered a few yards
and sank to the ground. A curious numbed feeling had come into his
legs. They had literally given way beneath him. As he tried to rise,
he was conscious of feeling half paralysed.
"Come along, man!" cried the other, impatiently. "Why, what's the row?"
"This!" he said, slowly, pointing to a small puncture in his boot just
on the instep. "I felt the sting when you first came to grief. I've
been pinked by a poisoned arrow."
The place was a wild one, shut in between lofty cliffs, gloomy now with
the falling shadows of night. Renshaw knew that he would never leave it
alive.
"Good-bye, Sellon," he said, the stupor deepening upon him even as he
spoke. "Don't bother any more about me. You're on the right track now,
and must find your way as best you can. Go on and leave me."
"Nonsense, old chap--make an effort, and try what you can do."
But Renshaw shook his head. "No," he said. "I cannot even get up. You
must take care of yourself now. Go on and leave me."
Sellon looked at him for a moment without a word. Then he--went on.