CHAPTER TWENTY.

TOO LATE.

"Not even a bucket, to give the poor devils of mules a drink, Fullerton," said Wyndham, who had been investigating around. "Really, Skrine's beastly inconsiderate."

"Oh, mules are like donkeys," was the impatient answer. "They can get along on a thistle and a half. The only thing to do is to make 'em."

"Oh, can they! Well, in this case I'm afraid they've got to. Come up!"

He shook up the reins and cracked his whip. The long-suffering beasts tautened to their collars, and pulled out again. They were rather fine animals, with a strong Spanish cross in them, and attaining somewhat to the Spanish dimensions. Still, by the time another three miles had been covered, it was evident that they had lost heart. Their spirits and their pace alike began to flag. It was a hot day, and Matabeleland is a thirsty country, to beast no less than to man.

Somehow, too, the spirits of the party seemed to suffer in proportion. Nothing is more depressing than driving a flagging team, and Wyndham accordingly was less given to mirth and anecdote, even with the stimulus of Clare Vidal at his side, than he had been up till now. Fullerton, characteristically, became snappish and ironical, and roundly cursed Skrine--poor Skrine--for leaving his place shut up and useless. What business had a man to keep a roadside store--and, of course, canteen-- unless it were for the benefit of travellers? They ought to object to the renewal of such a fellow's licence, by Jove they ought! Thus Fullerton.

"I don't believe we'll get to the Kezane before dark at this rate," he growled, "even if we get there at all. We shall probably have to outspan in the veldt. What do you think, Wyndham?"

"Oh, we'll get there all right."

"Er? And what if it's shut up too?"

"Then we'll have to make a camp, that's all. See now, Fullerton, the point of my loading up emergency supplies. You were inclined rather to poke fun at the idea this morning."

"By Jove, you're right after all," conceded Fullerton.

"I've been that way before, and experience, if a hard teacher, is a jolly effective one," said Wyndham. "We shall have to spare the mules a bit though. They're not going at all well."

Then Lucy Fullerton announced she had a headache. She had been looking forward to a cup of tea at Skrine's, and missing this, combined with the heat of the day, had given her a headache. But Clare was as fresh as when they started.

The road had become very rough here, and they were going at a walking pace. Fullerton had dropped off to sleep again, and, as Wyndham put it, had taken on his timber sawing job once more. Suddenly a shot--and then another, rang out some little way behind.

"The police seem to have started a buck," said Wyndham, looking backward round the tilt of the trap. Then, as he withdrew his head, and gathering the reins whipped up the mules to a smart trot, there was a something in the expression of his face that Clare noticed, and instinctively guessed at the reason--and the expression was one of eager anxiety. She, too, put out her head and looked back.

Half the police were dismounted, and, even as she looked, were in the act of delivering a volley among the bushes on the left side of the road. And creeping, and running, and dodging among the said bushes, she made out dark forms, the forms of armed savages; and the line these were taking would bring them straight upon the mule-waggon.

Somehow her predominating instinct was not fear but interest. She had never seen natives in their war-trappings before, and now she looked upon the shields and assegais and cow-hair adornments with vivid interest as something novel and picturesque. The fire of the police had checked them, or rather caused them to swerve, but they continued to run through the bush parallel with the waggon, though giving it a wide berth. But, as the police cantered forward so as to protect the waggon, they closed in nearer.

"What's the row?" testily cried Fullerton, whom the sound of the volley had started wide awake.

"We can keep them back for the present, sir," said the sergeant, riding alongside. "Luckily they don't seem to have any guns. But there's no harm in pushing on to the Kezane as quick as possible."

This Wyndham had already begun to do. But the ground was rough and bad, and the mules were anything but fresh. The fleet-footed natives could easily keep pace with them, if not outstrip them. These could be seen from time to time, flitting through the bushes, their obvious intent being to get ahead if possible and rush the whole outfit at some point in the road where the conditions would be more favourable to themselves.

Lucy Fullerton had uttered a little cry of alarm and then went deadly pale. Her sister, on the other hand, was absolutely cool, and watched every movement of the foe with a deepening interest. Wyndham, his face now stern and set, was giving all his attention to his driving. Fullerton was cursing his own idiocy at having left his revolver behind.

"It was foolish of you, Dick," said Clare tranquilly. "But--I brought it for you."

"You? You brought it?"

"Yes," and diving down among some bundles under the seat, as calmly as though she were looking for a mere pocket-handkerchief, she pulled up a small travelling-bag, producing thence two revolvers and two boxes of cartridges.

"Clare, you're a jewel of a girl," pronounced the astonished Fullerton, as he took the weapon she handed him. "But what's the other? Wyndham's?"

"No. It's mine," calmly loading it.

"Yours? That's no lady's toy anyhow. Why where on earth did you get it?"

"Mr Lamont gave it me--when he came to see us to say good-bye."

"Lamont gave it you! Good Lord! But--why?"

"He knew there was going to be a rising, and said it might come in useful."

"He knew--Well, I think he might have given some of us the benefit of his knowledge."

"He did. He gave it to some, who hardly believed him, and to me--who