Checking his map with various prominent landmarks the subaltern arrived at the limit of his ride, a clump of sub-tropical trees that crowned a horseshoe-shaped hill.

"That's all right so far," thought Dudley, comparing the contour of the hill with the plan. "Now comes the unknown."

His military map showed an absolute desert as far as detail was concerned. Topographical knowledge was practically at zero judging by the almost blank portion of paper representing the ground between the subaltern and the twin spurs of the Karewenda Hills against which Colonel Quarrier proposed making their actual frontal attack. It was Wilmshurst's task to cross this unknown ground, finding out the best route for troops to advance in column of route without being detected, and a suitable place for extending in open order prior to the final phases of the assault.

Tethering his pony by means of a long hide-rope—for out of consideration for the animal he forbore to hobble it, since there was a possibility that he might not be able to return to it, Wilmshurst fastened the rolled ground-sheet over his shoulder after the manner of a bandolier, and holding his rifle ready for instant action began his seven-mile trek. In order to baffle the enemy scouts should they be out, Dudley wore a pair of flat-soled boots to the feet of which were fixed a dummy pair of soles and heels in the reverse way. Any one picking up the spoor would be under the erroneous belief that the wearer was walking in the opposite direction to the actual one.

"Judging by my footsteps I must be a pigeon-toed blighter," soliloquised Wilmshurst, as he noted the turned-in prints in the soft ground. "I must look out to that, or I'll give the show away."

On and on he went, making his way from one point of cover to another, yet without seeing or hearing the faintest sign of the German patrols. It was not a reassuring business, for scouts might be in the vicinity, and a scout unseen is a far greater menace than one who incautiously betrays his presence.

Following the course of a donga he found that the narrow valley formed an admirable means for a column to advance if protected by flankers, but after tracing it for the best part of two miles Wilmshurst discovered that it terminated abruptly, merging into a vast open plain.

Cautiously the subaltern crept up the sloping face of the donga until his head was just above the edge of the level ground. By the aid of the glasses he made a prolonged and cautious survey. Eight hundred yards on his right front were swarms of vultures busily engaged in their revolting pastime; at a similar distance on the left were four springbok grazing unconcernedly. Both signs tended to prove that there were no human beings about, for in the case of the springbok their keen scent enabled them to detect the presence of the hunter to such an extent that it was a difficult matter to get within easy range of them.

Having taken a series of compass bearings and entered a few details on his map Wilmshurst started off for a kopje midway between the aasvogels and the springbok. Although he took the greatest pains to keep out of sight the nimble quadrupeds suddenly bolted, flying like the wind. A few seconds later the vultures rose from their interrupted repast, flying almost immediately over the prone form of the subaltern.

"Fishy—very," mused Wilmshurst. "What made the aasvogels fly this way? I'll sit tight and await developments."

For the best part of half an hour he remained perfectly quiet, not even risking to use his binoculars, lest the reflected light might attract the attention of a hostile scout. By this time the storm was drawing nearer—slowly but surely. As yet no rain had fallen. There were the indigo-coloured clouds ahead; behind the sky was one unbroken expanse of dirty yellow haze. It reminded Wilmshurst of the efforts of an amateur painter trying to "lay on" a coat of yellow paint with a tar-stained brush. Far away to the north came the reverberations of a peal of thunder. It was Nature's signal to the wary to take cover.

Finding at the end of thirty minutes that nothing happened to indicate the presence of an enemy, for the aasvogels had returned to their carrion feast, Wilmshurst essayed the remaining portion of his interrupted advance. The kopje, he decided, was to be the extreme limit of his reconnoitring expedition. From it he ought to be able to form a tolerably accurate idea of the nature of the terrain up to the base of the natural bastions of the Karewenda Hills.

Wilmshurst had taken only half a dozen steps when a rifle shot rang out. Practically simultaneously with the shrill whistle of the bullet something seemed to hit the subaltern on the left shoulder like a blow from a hammer.

"That's done it," was his mental exclamation. "Stopped one this time, by Jove!"

And spinning round twice he dropped to the ground.

Feeling horribly sick and faint Dudley sat up. He found that he was lying in a slight hollow, the surrounding ground being sufficiently high to afford good cover, while ahead and on the right were bushes of long-spiked thorn.

Satisfied on the point of concealment Dudley next devoted his attention to his wound. Ripping open the sleeve of his coat he discovered that a bullet had passed completely through his left arm just below the shoulder. There was very little loss of blood, showing that the missile had missed the principal veins and arteries, but whether it had smashed a bone was still a matter of uncertainty.

Applying a first-aid dressing to the best of his ability, Wilmshurst prepared to "grin and bear it." He realised that developments would be mostly a contest of patience. The sniper was anxious to know the actual result of his shot, but too cautious to close until he felt certain that he had killed his victim. Wilmshurst, anxious to "get his own back," also knew that premature action would spell disaster. All he could do was to sit tight and hope that his enemy would leave his lair.

Slowly the minutes passed. The numbing sensation of the wound was giving place to hot, stabbing pain, while in spite of the sultriness of the air a cold sweat oozed from the young officer's forehead.

"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "Hope I'm not going to faint or do something silly."

He bent forward until his head rested on his knees. In a few minutes the feeling of vertigo passed. A draught from his water-bottle had the effect of temporarily quenching the burning pain that gripped his throat.

"That's better," he declared, and straightway set to work to carefully blacken the foresight of his rifle, adjust the wind-gauge (for the first of a steady cross-wind had sprung up) and set the sights to six hundreds yards.

"Not so bad with the use of one arm only," he muttered complaisantly. "Hullo, here's the rain!"

With the typical fierceness of a tropical storm the rain beat down. Hailstones as big as a walnut thudded the ground, rebounding a foot or so in the air until all around was blotted out by the terrific downpour. Underneath the waterproof sheet Dudley lay, knowing that there was no chance of the sniper venturing from his lair while this battery of nature's weapons was in action. It was almost pitch-black, save for the phosphorescent-like light emanating from the falling rain. Occasional vivid flashes of lightning o'erspread the sky, followed by rumbling peals of thunder.

Taking particular pains to keep his rifle dry Wilmshurst lay close until the initial downpour had passed. Then, acting as promptly as his crippled condition would allow, he laid the muzzle of the weapon on a fork of one of the bushes. As he expected he found that he could take aim without much risk of being spotted, since the bush formed an efficient screen.

Still no sign of the sniper. Wilmshurst had no definite idea of the fellow's position. He could only surmise, basing his assumption on the report of the rifle, that he was either on the kopje ahead or else concealed behind one of the boulders on its side.

"Fritz knows how to play a waiting game too, I see," muttered Wilmshurst, as he deliberately wiped off a globule of water that had dropped upon the backsight of his rifle. "Hope he won't keep me waiting about till after midnight. I must stick it till he shows up."

The wounded subaltern bore no animosity towards the man who had shot him. In a true soldierly spirit he realised that the Hun had acted like a sportsman. It was merely a question of which scout was the sharper and Wilmshurst had been caught napping. Really he wanted to congratulate Fritz upon his excellent shot, but before qualifying his wishes on that score he must get his own back—shot for shot.

A thin haze of bluish smoke rose from a depression in the ground, and, caught by the wind, eddied into obscurity.

"Silly juggins!" exclaimed Wilmshurst. "Bad habit smoking when you're supposed to be en perdu. Now I know where to look for you."

The Hun was evidently arriving at a conclusion that he had "downed his man," but with the intention of waiting a little longer he was not able to resist the inclination of smoking a pipe.

Bringing the butt of his rifle to his shoulder Wilmshurst lingered over the sights—not with the idea of firing at a wreath of smoke, but to test his ability to "pull off" gently. To his surprise he found that the throbbing pain in his left shoulder had little or no effect upon his steadiness of aim. Provided Fritz showed himself the subaltern felt almost certain of scoring an "inner" if not a "bull."

In a quarter of an hour the puffs of smoke ceased. Wilmshurst had a mental vision of the Hun knocking out the ashes on the heel of his boot and placing the pipe away in his pocket.

"Now he'll be moving," thought Dudley.

His surmise proved correct, for first the upper part of the head and then the face and shoulders of a man appeared above a ridge of ground.

Wilmshurst stirred neither hand nor foot, lest in spite of the screen afforded by the bush his movements might be noticed by the alert scout.

Followed a few long-drawn moments of suspense as the scout made a careful survey by means of his field-glasses. Apparently satisfied he replaced the binoculars and carrying his rifle at the trail prepared to descend the knoll.

Deliberately and cautiously Wilmshurst glanced along the sights of his rifle. He would wait, he decided, until Fritz was some distance from his lair. It would give him a chance to get in a couple of shots if the first perchance should miss.

With his body from the waist upwards showing clearly against the copper-hued clouds the Hun offered a splendid target.

Gently the subaltern's finger crept to the trigger. In his interest in his foe he forgot the stinging, throbbing pain. The rifle, supported by the fork of the tree, was as steady as a rock.

Just as Wilmshurst was about to press the trigger a lurid blinding flash seemed to leap from the ground immediately on his front. With the echoes of an appalling crash that shook the solid earth ringing in his ears Dudley found himself gazing blankly ahead but seeing nothing. Dazzled by the sudden intensity of light, deafened by the concussion, he was conscious of a vile, sulphurous odour assailing his nostrils.

Gradually the mist decreased until he was able to see with comparative ease. His first thought was for his rifle; he was agreeably surprised to find that it was intact, for it seemed marvellous that the lightning had missed the steel barrel.

Then he looked in the direction of his enemy. The Hun was lying prone, his head pillowed on his arm. The other, curiously enough, was projecting obliquely in the air. All around the grass was burning, while already the luckless man's uniform was smouldering.

Abandoning all thought of concealment in his desire to aid his foe Wilmshurst sprang to his feet, and supporting his useless left arm by his right doubled towards the spot where the man had dropped.

As he drew near he saw that the German's rifle had been hurled quite ten yards. The barrel was partly wrenched from the stock, and for a distance of about a foot from the muzzle the steel had been split, revealing the glittering rifling.

Taking in these details at a glance Dudley gained the side of the prostrate man. One look was sufficient to show that the Hun had been killed outright.

"Hard lines, Fritz," exclaimed Wilmshurst aloud. "I'm glad I didn't have to pot you."

Something prompted him to grasp the dead man by his shoulder and turn him over on his back. As he did so, Dudley gave vent to an involuntary ejaculation of surprise.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's von Gobendorff."

* * * * *

It was close on sunset when Wilmshurst, racked with pain, returned to the bivouac. Willing hands assisted him from the saddle, yet, firmly declining to submit to the attentions of the medical officer until he completed his task, the wounded subaltern made a lucid report and submitted his maps for inspection.

Next morning he was sent down to the base hospital, protesting the while that the wound was not serious enough to keep him away from his platoon just as the fun was commencing.

* * * * *

A fortnight later, while Wilmshurst was convalescing at Kilwa, he was surprised by a deputation of officers of his regiment—Spofforth, Danvers, Laxdale, and three or four more.

"How goes it, old man?" exclaimed Spofforth, the leader of the deputation. "You've something to show for your little dust-up."

"I have," admitted Dudley. "A clean puncture through the arm. But what are you fellows doing here? You don't mean to say that the business is over?"

"By something I mean the M.C.," continued Jock Spofforth, ignoring Wilmshurst's questions. "It's in to-day's orders, so we're here to offer congrats. The battalion's doing well—a D.S.O., two M.C.'s and five D.C.M.'s; not a bad record, eh, what?"

"Yes, the show's over as far as we are concerned," added Laxdale. "We marched in yesterday. It was a jolly satisfactory piece of work that final attack on Fritz's position."

"Sorry I hadn't a hand in it," remarked Wilmshurst.

"You did, old man," protested Spofforth. "Those maps of yours—they were simply it. We just romped home, as it were. But buck up and don't look so down in the mouth. One would fancy you didn't cotton on to the Military Cross. And here's news. We are expecting orders for Mesopotamia, so that ought to cheer you up."

And Wilmshurst, M.C., of the Frontier Force, cheered up accordingly.

THE END