In August, Colonel Garratt, who was following in rear of General Elliot's movement on the Modder (see p. 89), marched from the junction of the Vet and Zand Rivers to Bultfontein. Here, on the 12th, he encountered a band of guerillas, took two and killed two, and pursued the rest as far as the banks of the Zand River. Here he lost them, for horse flesh could do no more. Turning, he veered north towards Honing Spruit. In this direction, near the junction of the Rhenoster and Honing Spruit, was said to be the laager of Spanneberg, and consequently a force under Colonel the Hon. H. White (300 mounted men and 30 Burgher Police) was detached to deal with him. Through the night of the 18th the troops marched warily yet rapidly towards their prey, fearing that at any moment rumour of their approach might render the expedition--as these expeditions were so likely to be--futile. But no; by dawn the sleeping gang was surrounded; they opened their eyes to the consciousness that a small forest of British rifles had grown up around them, and that efforts of defence were useless. They had to deal with men who were more than their match--Simpson of the New Zealand Regiment, Quintal of the New South Wales Bushmen, and other splendid fellows before whom they were only too glad to run! One Boer lost his life in the scrimmage, twenty-five were made prisoners, and Steyn, late Landdrost of Vredefort, was among them. Carts, waggons, horses, cattle too, were taken possession of, and the smart little force, after having covered 56 miles in 36 hours, returned to headquarters, duly elated with their prize. It was now necessary to search in the region of the Losberg for fugitive bands, and to this end Colonel Garratt on the 21st crossed the Vaal at Lindique Drift. The mounted troops were eternally spying and scouring hither and thither, and their activity was not in vain. In the distance on the morning of the 24th loomed what appeared to be a convoy--a convoy moving towards Buffelshoek. In an instant the trackers were after it, and before long the hostile gang was caught, dispersed, their precious freight taken, and with it eight prisoners, carts, oxen, cattle, and horses. With this extra burden on their hands, the party, fatigued after the chase, were, as may be imagined, almost at the mercy of fate. Fate, as it happened, was capricious. Such of the Boers as had contrived to escape gave warning of the perilous position of the British force, and at noon returned with a party of 300 of their fellows, who had been collected from the skirts of the Gatsrand. A vigorous fight ensued. The Boers, doughty always, were now grown dashing, the spur of famine driving them to the valour of despair. Between both was the prize--the prize to be held by those who had won it; by now, infinitely more precious than in the winning--the prize to be recaptured by those who had all the calls of the flesh to prompt the spirit to battle and retaliation. This was indeed a tug of war.