He knew that a boat was approaching, as yet hidden by some distant curve in the river.

The thud was caused by the contact of six paddles with the gunwale of the canoe as the paddlers withdrew them from the water.
Victor Durnovo rose again and brought from the boat a second rifle, which he laid beside the double-barrelled Reilly which was never more than a yard away from him, waking or sleeping.

Then he waited.

He knew that no boat could reach the bank without his full permission, for every rower would be dead before they got within a hundred yards of his rifle.
He was probably the best rifle-shot but one in that country--and the other, the very best, happened to be in the approaching canoe.
After the space of ten minutes the boat came in sight--a long black form on the still waters.

It was too far away for him to distinguish anything beyond the fact that it was a native boat.
"Eight hundred yards," muttered Durnovo over the sight of his rifle.
He looked upon this river as his own, and he knew the native of equatorial Africa.