and has just pipped us. To make matters secure,
he has poisoned the water-pit I've just come from with euphorbia
branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak. We were just going to
drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here--a decent
Masarwa he is, too--stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I
discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had
poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker's
curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The
water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot
of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one. However, we'll
be even with him yet. He's not far in front, and we may spoil his
little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship."

By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled.
Nearly six days of absolutely waterless travel, if the wagons could by
any possibility be dragged, lay between the trekkers and Tapinyani's
kraal. No oxen could pull the wagon waterless over such a journey. It
was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning,
to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing
in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left
a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and
drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani's. Without the
encumbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be
accomplished in two days, or rather less. Watered, rested, and
refreshed at Tapinyani's kraal, the oxen could then be driven back to
fetch in the wagon. This part of the undertaking was to be entrusted to
Stephan, the Hottentot driver. Stephan had been picked for the
expedition as a thoroughly reliable native, and having traversed the
Kalahari before, he would be equal to the emergency. Meanwhile, the
three white men, riding their freshest horses, and leading their spare
ones, were to push forward, after watering the nags at earliest dawn, in
the confident hope of reaching Tapinyani's kraal in a forced march of
thirty-six hours.

At four o'clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire
council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered
horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani's kraal, that singular native
village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense
waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew