In the centre of the river, plain to see in the bright moonlight, a man in shirt and trousers was digging. Every now and again he stooped and gathered the earth in both hands and laughed, a low chuckling laugh that made Amber’s blood run cold to hear. Amber watched for five minutes, then stepped out from his place of concealment. “Bang!” A bullet whistled past him and struck the bank at his side with a thud. Quick as thought, he dropped to cover, bewildered. The man who dug had had his back to him--somebody else had fired that shot! He looked round at the sergeant. “Abiboo,” he said grimly, “this is a bad palaver: we have come to save a man who desires to kill us.” Crawling forward again he peeped out: the man had disappeared. Taking the risk of another shot, Amber stepped out into the open. “Sutton!” he called clearly. There was no answer. “Sutton!” he shouted,--only the echo came to him. Followed by his men he moved forward. There was a hole in the centre of the watercourse, and a discarded spade lay beside it. He picked it up and examined it. The blade was bright from use, the haft was polished smooth from constant handling. He put it down again and took a swift survey of the place. He was in what was for all the world like a railway cutting. The dead river had worn its deepest channel here. On the moonlit side of the “cutting” he could see no place that afforded shelter. He walked along by the bank which lay in the shadow, moving the white beam of his lamp over its rugged side. He thought he saw an opening a little way up. A big dead bush half concealed it--and that dead bush was perched at such an angle as to convince Amber that it owed its position to human agency. Cautiously he began to climb till he lay under the opening. Then swiftly he plucked the dead brush away. “Bang!” He felt the powder burn his face and pressed himself closer to the earth. Abiboo in the bed of the river below came with a leap up the side of the bank. “_Ba--lek!_” shouted Amber warningly. A hand, grasping a heavy army revolver, was thrust out through the opening, the long black muzzle pointing in the direction of the advancing Houssa. Amber seized the wrist and twisted it up with a jerk. “Damn!” said a voice, and the pistol dropped to the ground. Still holding the wrist, Amber called gently, “Sutton!” There was a pause. “Who are you?” said the voice in astonishment. “You’ll remember me as Amber.” There was another little pause. “The devil you are!” said the voice; “let go my wrist, and I’ll come out--thought you were the Alebi folk on the warpath.” Amber released the wrist, and by-and-by there struggled through a grimy tattered young man, indisputably Sutton. He stood up in the moonlight and shook himself. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather uncivil,” he said steadily, “but I’m glad you’ve come--to the ‘River of Stars.’” He waved his hand towards the dry river bed with a rueful smile. Amber said nothing.