THE DERELICT 95 



the broken summits of a distant range of hills when 

 Mortimore rode out of camp carrying a two days' ration 

 of biscuit and biltong, a prismatic compass and a Mann- 

 licher rifle to search the surrounding country for the 

 required animals. For many miles with the scorching 

 sun beating upon him did he ride across the arid veld, 

 halting here and there at a spruit or dam to water 

 his pony. But neither Dutch homestead, Kafir kraal, 

 or human habitation of any kind did he fall in with, 

 and an occasional antelope, paauw, or koorhaan were the 

 only signs of life on that vast expanse of sun-scorched 

 plain. But no ; not quite the only signs of life, for as 

 Jack looked upwards into the cloudless heavens he saw 

 a number of dark specks wheeling at a great height 

 over head. The ' specks ' were Egyptian vultures, those 

 loathsome winged scavengers of the veld, and grim was 

 the smile that hardened Mortimore 's sun-tanned face as 

 he muttered, ' Mule meat begins to pall upon your appe- 

 tites, does it, you ugly devils ? ' and then, pushing forward 

 at a smart canter, he added, ' But you won't make a 

 meal off old Bushman or his rider just yet.' 



" At midday Jack off-saddled on the shore of a reed- 

 fringed pan of water to eat his banquet of macadam-hke 

 biscuit and buck-biltong. He had just finished the repast 

 and was in the act of lighting a pipe, when suddenly 

 he heard a rustling amongst the reeds. A few minutes 

 later a tall, gaunt, tatterdemalion of a white man emerged 

 from the dense cover. ' Good-morning sir ; you have 

 wandered far away from civilisation; may I ask what 

 brings you to this God-forsaken corner of the earth ? ' 

 opened the stranger as he approached Mortimore, carrying 

 an antiquated muzzle-loading gun over his shoulder. 



