A Veldt Vendetta

“Dumela spoored them easily to Sand Drift,” went on Brian, “and then it got too dark. If the old fool had come straight back at once and told us, we should have saved several hours; but not he. One of Stoffel Pexter’s people told him they’d seen three mounted Kafirs and two on foot go through just above the drift with a span of large bonte oxen. So we’d better go straight there and start on the spoor from there. One thing, we can’t miss it. It’s as broad as a waggon road.”

“Think they’ll show fight if we come up with them, Brian?” I said.

“Don’t know. We’ll take our guns in case of accidents. John Kafir has more respect for an armed crowd than for an unarmed one. Now – if you fellows are ready, we’ll lose no time getting under way. They are bringing up the horses now,” as a trampling was heard without. “Put a few extra cartridges in your pocket, Holt, while I find a shooter for Trask.”

I came out on the stoep and – from another door so did Beryl.

“It’s too bad to rout you out of bed to start off like this on a midnight foray,” she said.

The other two were inside, presumably arming. The fresh cool breaths of the midnight veldt, the circumstance of our projected undertaking, the knowledge that I was in a way rendering personal service to her who stood there, lent a curious dash of excitement and romance to the situation. The air was sharp, and the wrapper which she had thrown over her head framed and set forth the calm sweet face, and the lustrous eyes seemed to take on a softer expression in the starlight. I believe I nearly made a fool of myself then and there.

“Too bad?” I echoed. “Why, I would not have missed this for anything; especially as it holds out the additional attraction of being able to do something for you in particular.”

She looked puzzled. “For me in particular,” she repeated wonderingly. Then with the flash of a smile, “No, I give it up. Explain.”

“To recover your horse.”

“Who, Meerkat? Have they stolen him, then? Brian – ” as the other two now reappeared, “you never told me that Meerkat was one of the horses that are gone.”

“Oh, hang it! I’ve let the cat out of the bag,” I said disgustedly. “I ought to kick myself.”

“Don’t do that. Bring back Meerkat instead,” said Beryl, in her sweet, even way.

Of course I pledged myself to do so or die in the attempt, and all the rest of it – but my protestations were ruthlessly broken in upon by Brian’s voice. Brian has a brisk, healthy decisiveness about him when carrying out any responsible matter, which seldom fails to secure attention, wherefore now his reminder that it was time to start was effectual in cutting my farewells rather short.

“Man, I wish I was going,” said George grumpily, as he watched us mount. “It’s a beastly shame I can’t.”

Nobody took any notice of this, but Trask must needs sing out —

“So long, Miss Matterson. We’ll bring back the spoil, never fear.”

“Oh, great Caesar!” said Brian. “Why don’t you blow a trumpet while you’re about it, Trask – or fire a few shots by way of letting the whole countryside know we’re on the move?”

Decidedly Brian was in a “commandeering” vein. But the reproof was deserved.

Yes, it was exciting, that midnight going forth – exciting and enjoyable, as we moved on through the gloom, now riding abreast and talking, though in a low tone, as to the chances that lay before us, now falling into single file as our way narrowed into a cattle track through the bush. A brief off-saddle, then on again, and just as the first suspicion of dawn appeared in the east we descended a steep rocky path into a river valley. A Dutch farmhouse, rough of aspect, stood on an open space beyond the drift, and hard by it a few tumble-down sheep kraals and two or three native huts.

“That’s all right,” said Brian, having satisfied himself as to the identity of three human figures engaged in converse in front of the house. “Revell has been able to come. I was afraid Dumela wouldn’t find him at home.”

We rode through the drift, which was very low at that time of year, and as we dismounted I saw before me a swarthy Dutchman – who was the Stoffel Pexter before alluded to; an Englishman, whose hair and beard simply flamed at you, so fiery and red were both – this was Revell; the third, a Kafir, being, in fact, old Dumela, our cattle herd.

“Daag, Matterson,” began Pexter. “Are you on the spoor of your oxen? One of my zwaartgoed told me he’d seen them go through last night, so they’ve got a good start. He says it isn’t Kuliso’s schepsels this time – more likely Mpandhlile’s.”

“Likely. But let’s have some coffee, Stoffel, for we’ve only half an hour to off-saddle – not a minute more,” returned Brian decisively. “Awful good of you to turn out, Revell. Hardly expected to find you at home.”

“Man, that’s nothing,” said the other, whom I had met before, and who albeit a bit rough was rather a good fellow. His weakness was an intense susceptibility as to the “warmth” of his summit, and he had been known to thrash more than one of his Kafirs to an unmerciful degree simply by reason of overhearing the use among them of his native name, “Ibomvu” (red). “Why, what’d we do in a country like this if we didn’t turn out and help each other? Eh, Holt?”

“That’s so,” I answered; and now we adjourned to the house where Stoffel Pexter’s vrouw had laid out cups of scalding hot coffee and koekjes. The worthy Boer was exceedingly cordial towards us, for the expedition we were on appealed more than anything to his sympathies, and to those of his class. The same thing might happen to himself at any time. The Kafirs were thieving, murdering dogs in his estimation, not a shade better than wild beasts – in short, our natural enemies. So he wished us every success; and further, pressed upon us a bag of biltong, which he thought might come in handy before we got back. And we thought so too.

We took up the spoor at the place where the stolen animals were seen to cross the river. It was indeed as broad as a waggon road, as Brian had predicted, even to a tyro such as myself, for the ground was studded with fresh hoof marks; but the marauders were evidently old hands at the game, for avoiding steep hills which might blow the animals, they had made use of a narrow cattle track winding along through a deep rugged ravine, but ever ascending. We, however, had managed to travel much faster, and very soon halted to blow the horses on the heights overlooking the river valley, where, like a toy house in the distance, we could see the dwelling we had recently left. Here we came up with Dumela, who had started on ahead, and had made the distance in most excellent time.

Now we commanded a new view of country. Before us unfolded a panorama of wide rolling plain and bushy kloof, stretching away to further heights – dark, forest-clad and beautiful – but, on our then errand, forbidding. At these Dumela gazed fixedly, as he said, in his roundabout native way —

“Only if they are strong enough to keep it do those who steal an ox flaunt its skin in everybody’s face. It is there you will find the oxen.”

“How do you know that, Dumela?” said the irrepressible Trask, in Dutch, when this had been translated to us. The Kafir grinned with, I thought, a touch of contempt, and which wholly amused Brian, as he muttered to himself —

“Some white people are like women – always asking things they ought to know.” But out loud he said: “Why should I deceive you? I have nothing to gain by the oxen being stolen. They are my master’s – that is, mine; for they were under my care.”

Dumela was to leave us here, but before he started upon his homeward way, he said to Brian, “Inkose, you will find what you seek, but whether you will obtain possession of it, I know not, for the people over yonder are numerous and fierce and reckless, and they love not the whites – wherefore keep your eyes open.”

“That’s the dickey part of the whole situation,” said Brian, as we moved forward. “If we come to blows and had a free hand, why we’d probably be all right. As it is, it’s like fighting with one hand tied behind you. There’s no actual war on – not yet – though if things go on much longer like this there soon will be. If we start shooting to kill – or even shooting at all – ten to one it means a Circuit Court trial; but if they cut all our throats, not one of them’ll be any the worse for it – for even if the right men were ever dropped upon, it would be ruled that they acted in self-defence, and that armed parties of farmers had no right raiding into native locations.”

“Quite right, Matterson,” assented Revell. “They’d jaw about taking the law into our own hands, and what did the Colony keep up an expensive Police Force for, and so on. Fat lot you’d see of your oxen by the time you put that machinery to work. Why, the Kafirs’d have scoffed the whole span long before and started out to rake in more.”

Now, all this was no more than the bare truth. The unrest and bold and predatory propensities of our turbulent neighbours of late had been the cause of a growing uneasiness on the frontier, and more than one armed collision between settlers and the natives had occurred – arising out of just such provocation as had brought us hither. One indeed, quite recently, had been something of a cause célèbre in that to the frantic indignation of the presiding judge a frontier jury had unhesitatingly and obstinately refused to convict certain individuals of their own class and colour who had used fire-arms with fatal effect, but beyond all doubt in defence of their own lives.

“We may find ourselves in a rotten tight place, or we may not,” pronounced Brian, when we had discussed the whole position fore and aft. “If we do we must use judgment, and on no account loose off a shot unless we are absolutely and unequivocally obliged. Is that understood, you fellows?”

“Certainly,” was the answer on the part of myself and Revell. But Trask was not so unanimous.

“Do you mean to say, Matterson, that I’m to let a nigger cut my throat before I pull trigger on him? Because if so, I’m lowed if I do, and that’s all about it,” he said.

There was a queer look in Brian’s face as he answered —

“I mean to say nothing so idiotic. But, all things considered, Trask, perhaps you’ll oblige me by going home, and leaving us three to straighten out this worry. Now do. We shall get on so much better that way.”

“What the very devil do you mean, Matterson?” blustered Trask.

“What I say – no more, no less. I’m bossing this undertaking. I’m obliged to you for volunteering, but if you think you’ve got a better plan than mine, why we shan’t get on. That’s all.”

“Oh, blazes, man. I didn’t mean that. I’ll do anything you like,” answered Trask, after a moment’s hesitation, during which all hands thought the row might end in blows. “I’m not going to turn tail and go back now – not much.”

“It’s no question of turning tail, but of using ordinary and sound judgment,” rejoined Brian. “We shall be glad enough of your help on those terms.”

“Oh, all right, old chap. Say no more about it,” conceded the other with a sort of bluff, would-be good-natured growl – and the difference thus patched up, we resumed our way.

But I, in my heart of hearts, most devoutly wished we were through with it, for in marching into the nest of fierce and truculent barbarians which was our objective, it seemed to me we were placing ourselves between the very sharp horns of a bad dilemma. In sheer savagery, and trusting in the immunity which a paternal Government would be sure to extend to them, the sportive barbarians aforesaid might incontinently massacre the lot of us, or, if in defending ourselves any of our enemies got hurt, why then under the laws of our country we might have to stand our trial for murder. But the third solution of the difficulty, that we should return with whole skins and clean hands, and that for which we had come out, viz., the recovered stock, seemed to me just then rather too good to be hoped for.

Chapter Thirteen.

Checked

For some hours we held on without difficulty. It became very hot. The sun’s rays poured down into the close, shut-in kloofs as from the lens of a gigantic burning-glass; and the atmosphere was unmoved by a single puff of wind. The horses were in a bath of perspiration, and it became evident they must be off-saddled, wherefore a halt was called in a cool, shady place, where they could enjoy to the full a much-needed rest. It was a bushy secluded spot beneath an overhanging cliff, from whose face a whole cloud of spreuws flashed hither and thither, whistling in lively alarm, but, best of all, it contained a cool clear water-hole, albeit the liquid was slightly brackish.

“Tired, Holt?” asked Brian good-naturedly, as having knee-haltered the horses, we were discussing some supplies which had been brought in a saddle-bag. “Have a drop of grog.”

“To the first I answer ‘No,’ to the second, ‘Yes,’ emphatically!” I said, catching the flask which he chucked across to me. It was a roomy metal one, with considerable carrying capacity.