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As the night had now come on they could have done nothing of themselves, but the presence of Congo, accompanied by his hound Spoor'em, inspired them with fresh hope, and they proceeded onward. After a time it became so dark that Arend proposed a halt until morning. To this Hendrik objected, Congo taking sides with him.
Rain had been falling heavily all the night, and had destroyed any chance of the lost animals being tracked, even by Spoor'em. Within a large enclosure, contiguous to the boer's dwelling, more than five hundred cattle had been penned up during the eight. These had been turned out to graze that morning, and, in consequence, the ground was everywhere covered with the hoof-marks of horses and cattle.
Spoor'em being carried for two or three days on the back of one of the oxen, snugly ensconced in a large willow basket, woven by Congo for that express purpose. One evening, after a long day's journey, our adventurers found themselves within a few miles of home. A gallop of an hour or two, would place them in the society of the relatives and friends from whom they had been so long absent.
"He find anything that go over the grass." "But can you be sure that he is following the spoor of Willem's horse?" "Yaas, Master Hendrik, very sure of it. Spoor'em is no fool. He knows well what we want."
Two seconds more and Arend was safe from further pursuit. The hound Spoor'em was dancing about the borele's head, by his loud, angry yelps diverting its attention from everything but himself.
From this they were startled by the loud barking of Spoor'em and the calls of Congo. Springing to their feet they found themselves surrounded by a party of about forty Africans, some armed with spears, while others carried bows and arrows.
"He's found the spoor," exclaimed Congo, hastening forward. "I told um do that, and I knowed he would." They were all soon up with the dog, which kept moving forward at a slow trot, occasionally lowering its snout to the grass, as though to make sure against going astray. Unlike most other hounds, Spoor'em would follow a track without rushing forward on the scent, and leaving the hunters behind.
They would return to Graaf Reinet, and he should be left to die at the foot of the tree, or be torn from it by wild beasts. He was almost frantic with despair, when an idea suddenly occurred to him. He could not speak himself, but why could not the dog do so for him. His feet were still free, and, raising one of them, he gave Spoor'em a kick, a cruel kick.
Groot Willem and the giraffes were for a while forgotten. As the dog crawled close up to him, Congo saw that it carried one leg raised up from the ground, and that the hair from the shoulder downwards was clotted with blood. Spoor'em appeared to forget the pain of his wound, in the joy of again meeting his master, and never had Congo felt so strongly the wish to be able to speak.
Stealing out of their saddles, Willem and Hendrik gave their horses in charge to the Kaffir, and then proceeded to stalk. With their guns at full cock they advanced side by side, Spoor'em sneaking along at their heels. They stole up within five paces of the lion, which still held its ground.
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