them like beasts to make any progress and to keep them from throwing away their loads, and they are fagged out and angry. They don't require much of an excuse to kill us all on the spot. On top of all this they are underfed. If we could keep their bellies filled we could probably keep them happy and reasonably contented, but I have learned enough about natives to know that if they are hungry they are neither happy nor contented, even in idleness. If Esteban had not bragged so much about his prowess as a hunter we should have brought enough provisions to last us through, but now, though we are barely started upon our return journey, we are upon less than half rations."
"I can't kill game when there isn't any game," growled the Spaniard.
"There is plenty of game," said Kraski, the Russian. "We see the tracks of it every day."
The Spaniard eyed him venomously. "If there is so much game," he said, "go out and get it yourself."
"I never claimed to be a hunter," replied Kraski, "though I could go out with a sling shot and a pea shooter and do as well as you have."
The Spaniard leaped to his feet menacingly, and instantly the Russian covered him with a heavy service revolver.
"Cut that business," cried the girl, sharply, leaping between them.
"Let the blighters fight," growled John Peebles. "If one of 'em kills the hother there'll be fewer
