CHAPTER XIII

THE MORNING AFTER

BANG!

Another tyre, unable to withstand the fierce heat, had exploded, scattering a realistic imitation of a firework display in the form of a shower of glowing embers.

The four men watched in mute helplessness. They could do nothing. Even had they been able to cross the sea of subsiding flame that lay between them and the car the heat from the burning vehicle would have held them at bay. There were fire-extinguishers in the locker, but in present circumstances they were useless.

Mingled with the shower of burning petrol came the reek of blistering paint as tongues of fire leapt and embraced the coupé.

"Better stand clear," suggested Colonel Narfield after a while. "There are a couple of hundred rounds of ammunition in the car. By Jove! I was a thoughtless ass to chuck that petrol into the fire."

"Some of us might have been food for the lions if you hadn't," observed Colin. "Of course, it's rough luck to have to lose a good car----"

"You're right," agreed Colonel Narfield gravely. "Bring that rifle along with you, Tiny. My shoulder's a bit stiff ... nothing much. The brute's claws missed me."

Quitting their retreat that had all but been a fatal trap, the stranded travellers hastened back along the cliff path until a projecting rock offered a secure barrier from chance missiles.

They were only just in time. The ammunition, consisting of both ball and shot cartridges, was exploding like the fire of a badly-disciplined platoon. Fragments of nickel, splaying against the face of the cliff above their head and dislodging fragments of rock, were sufficient evidence to justify the display of caution on the part of Colonel Narfield and his companions.

The petrol in the back of the car had also exploded--twenty gallons that caused a flame compared to which the ignition of the two-gallon tin was a mere nightlight.

Luckily the car had been standing on ground shelving towards the cliff, and consequently the flaming spirit flowed steadily in that direction, falling in a cascade of fire into the abyss and lighting the deep valley for miles.

It was a weird scene, with a subdued orchestral accompaniment provided by the blood-curdling roars of the now thoroughly scared lionesses. Nor did the flames die out until the first blush of dawn stole over the eastern sky and the night of horror and disaster was at an end.

"We must get a move on before the sun's up," said Colonel Narfield briskly. Although suffering considerable pain from the concussion sustained when the lion hurled him to the ground he made light of his hurts. His chief concern was for the welfare of his newly-joined assistants, and realising that a merry heart goes a long way he endeavoured by precept and example to cheer up his inexperienced companions. "It's a mere forty miles to Kilembonga and fairly good going. We'll be able to find horses at Sibenga's Kraal: that's a matter of a couple of hours' trek. Now then, McFrazer, let's collect what remains of the gear."

The four smoke-grimed and dishevelled men prepared to resume their journey on foot. There was a considerable amount of baggage that had survived the fire in addition to that lost in the car. The two rifles and ammunition, tinned provisions and blankets, even when distributed between four persons, made quite a heavy load, and before long they would feel heavier still.

Of the car nothing remained but the four cylinders, a twisted crank-case, the steel chassis, and a medley of buckled pipes, wires, and rods.

"And the worst of it is," remarked Colonel Narfield, "she wasn't insured. I wrote to an agent in Nairobi only last Monday, but as I didn't know the amount of the premium there's nothing doing in that line. Now, lads, mind your step. Keep a look out for snakes. They're rather more formidable than the grass snakes you used to hunt for on the hills around Stockmere."

For the next hour progress was well maintained in spite of the rough road. It was steadily down hill, the path skirting the bold face of the mountain for nearly two miles before it descended into a grassy valley.

Presently Colin caught sight of a column of smoke rising from a collection of beehive-shaped huts.

"That's Sibenga's Kraal," announced Colonel Narfield. "The natives in this part are of Zulu stock, and in their manners and customs they don't differ much from their blood relations in Natal."

"Are they Makoh'lengas?" asked Colin.

"Makoh'lengas?" repeated Herbert Narfield, "No; but what do you know about Makoh'lenga?"

Colin told him.

"H'm," remarked his questioner. "And who, might I ask, spun you this fairy tale? Your friend Van der Wyck, eh? He must be a humorist of sorts. Let me tell you that the Makoh'lenga are almost pure-blooded Zulus. It is true that they trekked north, but the yarn about a secret city is all eye-wash. The Makoh'lenga invariably live in kraals, and since they are not allowed to fight they rear cattle. A few, I believe, work in the mines, but only a few."

Sinclair was dumfounded at the information. Already his faith in Van der Wyck had received a rude shock when he had a suspicion that Van der Wyck and the train robber were one and the same person. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to believe that the Afrikander had "sold him a dog."

Placing the rifle he was carrying in the crook of his left arm, Colin produced the swastika which he had worn round his neck since the day on which he had had it given him.

"What do you make of this, sir?" he asked.

Colonel Narfield stopped, set down his pile of blankets, and examined the barbaric-looking jewel.

"By Jove, Colin!" he exclaimed after a brief scrutiny. "Where on earth did you pick this up?"