Renshaw Fanning's Quest: A Tale of the High Veldt

“Now, good people,” he said cheerily, “you may all go to bed. I’ll call you when I want you. I’m going to watch at one corner, and Gomfana will take the other. There’ll be no catching us napping. Besides, the dogs will raise the most awful shillaloo if any one heaves in sight.”

Shakedowns had been improvised on the floor with rugs and pillows. In great measure reassured by Marian’s unconcern, Violet consented to lie down. Mrs Selwood betook herself to her children’s room.

The moon mounted higher and higher to the zenith, flooding the land with an eerie and chastened half-light. The monotonous chirrup of the tree-frog, the shrill baying of a pair of hunting jackals, the occasional cry of a nightbird mournfully echoing from the mountain side, floated to the watcher’s ear. Unremitting in his vigilance, Renshaw moved silently from room to room, his unerring eye scanning the ground at every point, and keeping his sable lieutenant up to the mark, lest that worthy should be tempted to doze. But Gomfana, who was armed with an axe and some assegais taken from a wall trophy, was rather thirsting for the encounter than otherwise.

Some hundred and fifty yards from the main dwelling was a large outhouse block, comprising stables, waggon shed, shearing house, etc. On this point Renshaw’s attention was mainly concentrated. He felt sure that the miscreants would take advantage of the shadow of this building to creep up as near as they could. Another point that needed watching was the thick quince hedge which skirted the garden, and which now afforded a shade congenial to the assailants’ movements.

Nothing is more trying to the nerves than a lonely nocturnal vigil. Most men, brave enough in actual danger, would have felt the “creepy” effect of those silent hours as they strained their eyes upon the surrounding veldt, now construing a shadow into an enemy – now hearing a whisper of voices, the tread of a stealthy footstep – in the varying and spectral sounds of the night. But Renshaw’s solitary and wandering life had inured him to these things. His chief considerations now were, firstly lest the drowsy feeling, which he was doing his utmost to combat, should tend to dim his vigilance; secondly, the stilling of his cravings for just one carefully guarded pipe.

Suddenly the faintest possible creak of a footfall on the floor behind him. He turned like lightning.

“It’s only me,” whispered a soft voice. And a tall figure approached in the gloom.

“Marian! Why are you not lying down with the rest?”

“They’re all asleep now, even Violet, Look, I’ve brought you some sandwiches. You hardly ate anything when you came in. You set to work upon them at once, and I’ll mount sentry while you are having supper.”

“How good of you!” he said, taking the plate from her, and also the glass of brandy-and-water which she had mixed for him, “Why, what have you there? A shooting iron?”

“Of course. You don’t suppose I was going to leave my gun behind when we are in a state of siege, do you?”

She carried a double-barrelled breech-loader – rifle and shot cartridge – and there was a warrior flash in her eyes visible in the moonlight, which told that she meant to use it, too, if occasion required.

“It is very lonely for you, watching all by yourself,” she continued. “I thought I would come and keep you company.”

“So like you again. But look here, Marian dear. You must not be exposed to danger. Single-handed I can make such an example of the schepsels that they’ll probably turn and run. Still, they might let fly a shot or two. You will go back to the others if I ask you – will you not?”

Her heart thrilled tumultuously within her. In the darkness she need be at no pains to conceal the tell-tale expression of her face. Ah, but – his tones, though affectionate, were merely brotherly. That might be, but still, whatever peril he might undergo, it should be her privilege to share it – her sweet privilege – and she would share it.

“No; I will not,” she answered decisively. “I can be as cool as any one living, man or woman. Feel my hand; there is not a tremble in it.” And her fingers closed round his in a firm, steady clasp, in which there was nothing nervous, nothing spasmodic.

“I believe you can,” he answered, “but I was thinking of your safety.”

“My safety!” she interrupted. Then in a different tone, “How do you suppose they’ll come, Renshaw? Walk openly to the house or try to creep up in the shadow?”

“The last. You see they showed their hand by tackling me upon the road. Yet they may think I’ve turned in and bothered no more about it. Hallo!”

“What is it?”

“I could have sworn I heard something. I’ve got long ears – like a donkey, you will say.”

Both listened intently, the woman with less eagerness, less anxiety, than the man. There was a kind of exaltation about Marian to-night. Her nerves were as firm as those of her male companion himself; and the certainty of a bloody conflict was to her, in her then frame of mind, a mere matter of detail.

“Ah! I thought I was right,” he went on, as a premonitory “woof” from one of the dogs lying around the house was followed by a general uprising and clamour on the part of the whole lot. Then, baying savagely, they started off in fall charge in the direction of the dark line of shade thrown by the willows fringing the dam, and on the opposite side to that watched by Renshaw and his companion.

“Marian, just go to the other side and look if you can see anything. You won’t, I know, but still there’s no harm in making sure.”

She obeyed. From that side of the house nothing was visible except a long stretch of sickly moonlight and the line of trees. But the dogs had disappeared within the shade of the latter and were raising a clamour that was truly infernal. They seemed to be holding something or somebody in check. Then she returned to her former post.

“There’s nothing there,” she said, “at present. Ah!”

Three shadowy figures were flitting round the angle of the outhouse block above mentioned. They gained the shade thrown by the front of it – crouched and waited.

“Here they are,” whispered Renshaw, under his breath. “I was up to that dodge. One fellow was told off to draw off the dogs, while these jokers sneaked up in the opposite direction. Look – here come the rest.”

Two more figures followed the first – then another. All were now crouching in the shadow of the outhouses. Still the yelling clamour of the dogs sounded distant on the other side, kept up with unabated fury.

Chapter Sixteen.

Catching a Tartar

“Now, Marian,” whispered Renshaw. “This is going to be a life-and-death business, remember. It’s them or ourselves. You are sure you have no womanish qualms in favour of ‘giving them a chance,’ or any madness of that kind?”

“You will see!” was the curt reply, and the tone was sufficient.

“All right. When I say ‘Now,’ you must let into the fellow I’ll point out to you. Use your shot-barrel, remember. I’m going to let them get quite close, and we’ll give them a heavy charge of loepers apiece. Then if we get a show we’ll follow it up with rifle practice.”

She whispered assent, and for some moments they strained their eyes upon the shade of the outbuildings. Suddenly one dark figure flitted noiselessly out, followed by another and another, till the whole gang were full in sight, advancing in a diagonal line.

“Keep cool, Marian, keep cool,” warned Renshaw. “Wait for the word. They are not nearly close enough yet.”

On came the six cut-throats. Two black men led – then a bestial-looking, undersized Bushman Hottentot; his hideous yellow face, repulsive in the moonlight, cruel, ape-like; his eyes rolling in eager, ferocious expectation of the sanguinary orgy which awaited. The other three were half-bloods. Five of them carried guns, the sixth a pistol. Again Renshaw had done the very best thing he could, in shaping the plan we have heard him lay down.

On they came. Once the leader raised his hand, and all stopped, listening intently. The wild clamour of the dogs still arose in the distance. Reassured, the scoundrels advanced, swiftly, noiselessly. Seventy – sixty – fifty – forty yards.

“Ready, Marian! Take the third fellow. Now!”

Crash! Crash!

The double report bellowed forth into the midnight stillness. Mingling with it came a horrid scream. Marian’s aim had been true and deadly. The leader of the gang, a stalwart Kafir – had made one leap into the air and had fallen forward on his face. He lay motionless. Again Renshaw drew trigger, bringing a third man to the grass, his knee-bone shattered.

Then the unexpected took place. Instead of seeking safety in headlong flight, as the defenders had reckoned, the surviving three rushed madly round to the other side of the house, a bullet from Renshaw’s six-shooter failing to stop them.

“Stay here, Marian,” whispered the latter hurriedly. “Draw on the first fellow who shows himself.” And in a trice he was round to meet the new attack.

What was this? No sign of the enemy. Had they fled?

Suddenly a crash of glass – a scuffle and a torrent of Dutch curses. Quickly the position stood revealed.

There stood Gomfana, holding on to a human figure which was half in and half out of the window – head and shoulders through the shattered sash. He had got the fellow firmly by the neck with one hand, while with the other he was striving all he knew to drag him in by his clothing. But the villain – a stalwart half-breed – was almost too much for the sturdy young Kafir. The latter would have assegaied him in a moment had he owned three hands. Having but two, however, and these two being required to hold on to his enemy, it was out of the question – but hold on he did.

“Stop struggling or I’ll shoot you dead!” said Renshaw, in Dutch, placing the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s body. The fellow, thoroughly cowed, obeyed, and Gomfana, with a final effort, hauled him bodily into the room amid a terrific shatter of falling glass.

“What on earth’s the row, Uncle Renshaw?” said a boy’s voice.

“Fred, cut away and find a reim” Rope is little used in South Africa, its place being supplied by raw hide-thongs termed as above. “Sharp’s the word – mind.”

In a twinkling the youngster was back with the required article, and almost as quickly Renshaw’s ready hand had strapped up the midnight robber so that the latter could not move a limb. Now, all this had happened in far less time than it has taken to narrate.