en as Halloran
gazed, figure after figure came running into view over the slope behind
the forlorn and desperate-looking fugitive blacks these, and by their
diminutive size he knew them for Bushmen. There were seven or eight of
them in sight. How many more were behind he could not of course guess,
nor did he stop to look, for every manly instinct in his body sent him
flying out of his shelter towards the hunted man. He must shoot quick,
for it was plain the Bushmen were gaining on their quarry. So, shouting
with all his might, Halloran ran forward. A couple of hundred yards'
sprint and they were within range. Down he went on one knee, and crack,
crack went the sporting Mauser. The vibration of the hot air was
sufficient excuse for bad shooting, and it was not until he had emptied
his magazine that he had the satisfaction of sending the leading
Bushman sprawling. But the others did not pause, and as Halloran thrust
another clip into the magazine and ran forward again, shouting and
using some very bad language in his excitement, he saw the leading
figure throw up his hands and fall forward upon his face. He had the
range better now, and was getting near. A second and a third Bushman
fell dead, but the others made no attempt to retreat, and appeared to
be rifling the body in frantic haste. Again Halloran paused, and sent a
bullet into the bunch. Now they were flying away, leaving four of their
number behind them. Shot after shot was sent after them till they were
out of range, beyond the ridge, by which time Halloran had reached the
fallen white man. There he lay, stone dead, with a Bushman's poisoned
arrow between his shoulders and his body already swollen and horrible
from the deadly poison. A white man without doubt, his feet bare and
bleeding from his awful flight, his few poor rags almost torn from his
body by the Bushmen. Though tanned almost black he had been a fair man,
and his blue eyes stared horribly. He was beyond all succour, whoever
he was, and Halloran turned savagely to the remnants of the murderous
band. They had paid dearly. Three were stone dead. A fourth lay dying
where Halloran had brought him down in his flight, and near him lay a
tattered pocketbook. Halloran picked this up. He knew what name he
should find in it before he glanced at the contents. Yes, there was the
name: "Heinrich Kramer." It was the man who had gone back for the
diamonds. This, then, was why the Bushmen had followed and killed him
a