"Great Scott! I believe there isn't a soul on the place," said Wyndham anxiously. "No, I thought not," as they rattled up to the door, and saw that it was securely shut, and that of the stable padlocked. Then, putting his head round the tent of the waggon, "Sergeant!" "Sir?" answered the non-com. trotting up. "Fall back just out of earshot with your men, and do a little language for us, will you? We can't, we've got ladies with us. Skrine's store's no good. Skrine's away and his idiotic stable's locked up. No use outspanning here." The police sergeant spluttered--and those in the waggon laughed. Yet not very light-heartedly. It was really a nuisance, for it meant that they must push on another stage to the Kezane Store--the original plan, but one which Wyndham had already recognised that Langrishe was right in advising him to abandon; for the heat and the pace had already told on the mules. They would have laughed less light-heartedly, or rather they would not have laughed at all, had they known that about a mile back, and only a few hundred yards from the road, the bodies of Skrine and three other men, who had fled thus far for their lives, were lying among the bushes, their skulls smashed, and their poor faces hacked and gory beyond recognition, stamped with the ghastly imprint of their awful death-agony, staring upward to the serene and cloudless blue of heaven. CHAPTER TWENTY. TOO LATE. "Not even a bucket, to give the poor devils of mules a drink, Fullerton," said Wyndham, who had been investigating around. "Really, Skrine's beastly inconsiderate." "Oh, mules are like donkeys," was the impatient answer. "They can get along on a thistle and a half. The only thing to do is to make 'em." "Oh, can they! Well, in this case I'm afraid they've got to. Come up!" He shook up the reins and cracked his whip. The long-suffering beasts tautened to their collars, and pulled out again. They were rather fine animals, with a strong Spanish cross in them, and attaining somewhat to the Spanish dimensions. Still, by the time another three miles had been covered, it was evident that they had lost heart. Their spirits and their pace alike began to flag. It was a hot day, and Matabeleland is a thirsty country, to beast no less than to man. Somehow, too, the spirits of the party seemed to suffer in proportion. Nothing is more depressing than driving a flagging team, and Wyndham accordingly was less given to mirth and anecdote, even with the stimulus of Clare Vidal at his side, than he had been up till now. Fullerton, characteristically, became snappish and ironical, and roundly cursed Skrine--poor Skrine--for leaving his place shut up and useless. What business had a man to keep a roadside store--and, of course, canteen-- unless it were for the benefit of travellers? They ought to object to the renewal of such a fellow's licence, by Jove they ought! Thus Fullerton.