Meanwhile the Basutos, very active fellows, were coming up.

By this time the yellow-wood grove in the swamp, of which I have already written, was close to us, and it became quite a question which of us would get there first (I may mention that Footsack & Co.

had already attained its friendly shelter).
Anscombe kicked the horse with his sound heel and I thumped it with my fist, thereby persuading it to a hand gallop.
As we reached the outlying trees of the wood the first Basuto, a lank fellow with a mouth like a rat trap, arrived and threw an assegai at us which passed between Anscombe's back and my nose.
Then he closed and tried to stab with another assegai.

I could do nothing, but Anscombe showed himself cleverer than I expected.
Dropping the reins, he drew his pistol and managed to send a bullet through that child of nature's head, so that he went down like a stone.
"And you tell me I am a bad shot," he drawled.
"It was a fluke," I gasped, for even in these circumstances truth would prevail.
"Wait and you'll see," he replied, re-cocking the revolver.
As a matter of fact there was no need for more shooting, since at the verge of the swamp the Basutos pulled up.

I do not think that the death of their companion caused them to do this, for they seemed to take no notice of him.