he was
going to place himself alone in the power of these sullen plotting
savages? Well, this was not the first situation of the kind in which he
had played the leading and only part. It was by just such cool and
calculated intrepidity, by just such well-nigh superhuman confidence in
his own personality and resource, that Harley Greenoak had come forth,
not merely with his life, but triumphant and successful where
ninety-nine men out of a hundred would never have come forth at all.

The settlement, largely augmented by tents and waggons of refugees, was
in darkness, as he left it behind. Down by the outspan quite a number
of waggons had formed a laager, but from this came no challenge as he
passed it near by. Either its inmates were asleep, or the sound of a
horse travelling at a foot's pace conveyed no suggestion of danger. The
open veldt lay in front, the great table-topped cone of Moordenaar's Kop
towering on high against the myriad stars.

But--what was this? Behind, not too near, but just near enough to keep
the horseman within sight, within hearing, a stealthy form was flitting.
Seen in the darkness, it was that of an evil-looking, thick-set savage,
with a forbidding countenance dotted unevenly with scrabbly wisps of
beard. In his hand was a pair of hard iron-wood sticks, and one
assegai, with a broad, keen, fluted blade.

The rider held carelessly on. His horse, purposely kept unshod, gave
little sound from its footfalls; himself, perfect in his self-restraint,
foregoing even the comfort of a harmless pipe. Harmless, yes--under
most conditions; under existing ones, the mere faint spark of light
required for its ignition was a thing to be avoided, lest it should
reach the wrong eyes, small as might be the chance of it doing so. But
his habit was to take no chances in a matter of life and death.

Hour after hour--then a short off-saddle, then on again, and still the
stealthy form moved silently, cautiously behind, always keeping its
distance lest the horse should neigh, or otherwise show signs of
uneasiness. Harley Greenoak was being shadowed.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

IN THE LOCATIONS.

Sunrise. A long green valley bounded by pleasant, round-topped,
bush-clad hills. The slopes are dotted with kraals, the blue wood-smoke
curling aloft from the yellow thatch of many a beehive-shaped hut, the
red-ochred forms of the inhabitants moving about--early as it is--making
a not unpleasing contrast to t