I was now over fifty miles from my water-bag, which was hanging in a
tree at the mercy of the winds and waves, not to mention its removal
by natives, and if I lost that I should probably lose my life as well.
I was now ninety miles from the Shoeing Camp, and unless I was
prepared to go on for another hundred miles; ten, fifteen, twenty, or
fifty would be of little or no use. It was as much as my horse would
do to get back alive. From this point I returned. The animal went so
slowly that it was dusk when I got back to the Cup, where I observed,
by the removal of several boughs, that natives had been here in my
absence. They had put a lot of boughs back into the hole again. I had
no doubt they were close to me now, and felt sure they were watching
me and my movements with lynx-like glances from their dark metallic
eyes. I looked upon my miserable wretch of a horse as a safeguard from
them. He would not eat, but immediately hobbled off to the pit, and I
was afraid he would jump in before I could stop him, he was so eager
for drink. It was an exceedingly difficult operation to get water out
of this abominable hole, as the bucket could not be dipped into it,
nor could I reach the frightful fluid at all without hanging my head
down, with my legs stretched across the mouth of it, while I baled the
foetid mixture into the bucket with one of my boots, as I had no other
utensil. What with the position I was in and the horrible odour which
rose from the seething fluid, I was seized with violent retching. The
horse gulped down the first half of the bucket with avidity, but after
that he would only sip at it, and I was glad enough to find that the
one bucketful I had baled out of the pit was sufficient. I don't think
any consideration would have induced me to bale out another.

Having had but little sleep, I rode away at three o'clock next
morning. The horse looked wretched and went worse. It was past midday
when I had gone twenty miles, when, entering sandhill country, I was