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

“No rest for me after that. The idea of that huge stone – worth, maybe, tens of thousands of pounds, lying there to be had for the picking up – left me no rest night or day. In six months I was back there again, me and a mate. But when we reached the spot where I first sighted the Eye it was not there. Nothing but pitch darkness. We felt pretty blank then, I can tell you. We waited t ll nearly dawn. Suddenly Jim gave a shout.

“There it is!

“There it was, too, glittering as before. Then it faded. And at that moment we had to ‘fade’ too, for a volley of arrows came whistling among us, and poor Jim fell with a dozen in him.

“I don’t know how I got away, but I did, and that’s all about it. The furious little devils came swarming from rock to rock, and I couldn’t get in a fair shot at them. I had to run for my life, and if I hadn’t known those awful mountains almost as well as they did I shouldn’t have escaped either. I’m getting mortal weak, friend – stay – another drink of brandy.

“What were you saying? The thing couldn’t have been a diamond ’cause a diamond can’t shine till it’s cut? I know that. But I believe this one is cut – split by some convulsion of Nature, polished, so to say, on one side. And there are ‘stones’ there, for we found two or three more, but of no size.

“This last time – never mind it, I’m getting weaker. I’d better tell you how to get there while I can. Ride a full day due north beyond the great river where you cross it from here – thirty miles maybe – two kloofs – one long poort. (A poort is a pass or defile as distinct from a kloof, which is a mere terminable ravine.) Take the long poort, and follow it to the end. There are – two mountains – turret-headed – and a smaller one. Straight from – the smaller one – facing the setting sun – within – day’s ride – and – beware – the schelm Bushmen. How dark – it is – good night, friend. Don’t forget – The Valley of the Eye – you’re a rich man – ”

Thus closed the record of the dying adventurer. Commencing with all the verve of a darling topic, it ended in disjointed, fragmentary sentences, as the flickering life-spark burned fainter and fainter. Yet there was something pathetic in the generosity of this man, a mere rough adventurer, gasping forth in the stupor of approaching death the history of, and clue to, his alluring, if somewhat dangerous, secret – his last breaths husbanded and strained, that he might benefit one who was a perfect stranger to himself, but under whose roof he had found a refuge – a place wherein he might die in peace, tended by kindly and sympathetic hands.

To the two men, there in their lonely camp, it was as a voice from the dead speaking to them. Even Maurice Sellon, hard, reckless, selfish as he was, felt something of this among the varied emotions evolved by the almost miraculous reappearance of the lost document.

Overhead, in the dark vault, myriads of stars twinkled and burned, one every now and again falling in a silent, ghostly streak. The creatures of the night, now fairly abroad, sent forth their wild voices far and near, and ever and anon the horses picketed close at hand would prick up their ears and snort, as they snuffed inquiringly the cool breaths of the darkness.

“And you think that near enough, eh, Fanning?”

“I do. This time we shall find it – that is, if we are given half a show. We may have to fight, and we may have to run – in which case we must try again another time. But the great thing is to find it. I have never been able to do so yet. Find it. The fighting is a secondary consideration.”

“Then you really think these Bushmen are still knocking about the spot?” said Sellon, uneasily, with a furtive glance around, as if he expected a flight of poisoned arrows to come pouring into the camp then and there.

“Undoubtedly. But they are a wandering crew. They may be there, or they may be a hundred miles off. However, the fact that they have only interfered with me once out of the four attempts I have made is proof that the chances in our favour are three to one. That’s pretty fair odds, isn’t it?”

“Yes; I suppose so. But, I say, Fanning, humbug apart, do you really mean to say you’ve made four trips all by yourself into that infernal country? All by yourself, too?”

“Certainly. It’s odd, by the way, what money will do – or the want of it. If I had a comfortable sufficiency, even, I’d let the thing go hang – make it over to you or any other fellow, and welcome. But here I am, desperately hard up – stone-broke, in fact. And I have a good few years more to live in this world, and one can’t live on air. So one must risk something. But, mind you, I don’t care for inordinate wealth. I only want enough to be able to steer clear of pinching – perhaps help other fellows along a bit – at any rate, to move on equal terms with the rest of mankind.”

“Well, you’re moderate enough, anyhow,” said Sellon. “Now, I could never have too much. By Jove! if we do succeed, eh? Only think of it!”

“I’ve thought of it so often, Sellon. I must be used to the idea. But, as I said, it’s only a case of rolling on tranquilly – no more pinching or scraping, with the ghastly alternative of borrowing. That’s all I care about.”

The quiet, unimpassioned tone, so different to the suppressed excitement which he had brought to bear on the subject when it was first mentioned, struck the other all of a sudden. But for himself and his own presence, Fanning would likely enough have been as keen on this treasure hunt as he used to be – keener perhaps. And like a glimmer upon Maurice Sellon’s selfish soul came the idea. What if Fanning were trying to enrich him for Violet’s sake? Yet could it be? Such a stupendous act of self-abnegation was clean outside his own experience of the world and human nature – which experience was not small.

The night was wearing on. Suddenly a loud and frightful sound – so near that it caused both men to raise themselves on their elbows, Renshaw leisurely, Sellon quickly and with a start – echoed forth upon the night. The horses pricked up their ears and snorted and tugged violently at their (luckily for themselves) restraining reims, trembling in every limb.

A dull red glow threw forward the razor-like edge of the cliff overhanging the camp. Silhouetted against this, looming blackly as though sculptured in bronze, stood the mighty form of a huge lion.

Again that terrible roar pealed forth, booming and rumbling away in sullen echoes among the krantzes. Then the red moon arose over the head of the majestic beast, the grim Monarch of the Night roaring defiance against those who dared invade his desert domain. For a moment he stood there fully outlined, then vanished as though melting into empty air.

“Lucky, I took the precaution of building a schanz– eh?” said Renshaw, quietly heaping fresh logs on to the fire.

“By Jove! it is,” acquiesced Sellon, a little overawed.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Following the Clue

It takes a little time to get used to sleeping out in the open, and on the hard ground. The latter the novice is apt to find hard indeed. There is always that refractory lump or stone just under his hip-bone, and by the time he has removed this, or shifted his position, he only settles down to find two similar sources of affliction where there was but one before. If timid, he will think of snakes; if nervous, he will be momentarily imagining some cold creeping thing crawling over his ear or sneaking inside the legs of his trousers. Add to this the novelty of the situation and the hundred and one varying voices of the night, which combine to keep him awake, and it follows that however alluring to the embryo traveller may be the prospect of “camping out,” the reality is less pleasant – till he gets used to it.

Renshaw, remarking that their late formidable visitant needn’t have wished them good night quite so loudly, rolled himself in a blanket, and in ten minutes was fast asleep. But Sellon, being new to this kind of thing, speedily fell a victim to each and all of the little inconveniences above detailed, and passed a most uncomfortable and restless night. The howling of the hyaenas, mingling with the shriller “yap” of the hunting jackal, sounded continuous – then just as he was dropping off into a doze, the loud “baugh! baugh!” of a troop of baboons on the mountain-side started him wide awake again, his first impression being that their late visitor was prowling around, intent on cultivating a closer acquaintance. Twice, indeed, he did hear that thundrous, muffled roar, which once heard is so unmistakable, but it was in the far distance. On the whole, therefore, all unrested as he was, he felt anything but sorry when his companion, looking out from under his blanket, stared at the stars, then leisurely sat up.

“By Jove! I’ve been envying you,” growled Sellon. “You’ve been sleeping like a log, and I’ve hardly closed my eyes all night.”

“Not, eh? Ah, I forgot you’re not used to this sort of thing. You soon will be, though. Turn in again a little longer, while I brew the coffee.”

“Coffee! Why, man, it isn’t daylight yet!”

“No, but in a few minutes it will be. However, you lie still. Try and snatch another hour’s snooze. I’ll see to everything.”

He was as good as his word. When Sellon awoke – not in another hour, but rather more than two – the sun was already up, but his comrade was nowhere to be seen, nor were the horses. There was the coffee-kettle, however, handy by the fire, and some biscuit. Having absorbed a steaming cup or two, Sellon lighted his pipe and felt better.

A double report sounded from some way along the river-bank then and there. In about twenty minutes Renshaw returned.

“I’ve been marketing,” he said, turning half a dozen ring-doves out of his pocket. “These little jokers are not half bad when grilled on the coals, and they don’t take long to cook. To-night will be the last time we can make a fire, until we find ourselves here again – that is, if we come back this way.”

“Well, I shall go and get a swim,” said Maurice, jumping up and stretching himself.

“A swim? Hold hard. Where will you get it?”

“In the river, of course,” was the astonished answer. But Renshaw shook his head.

“You’d better not try it, Sellon. It isn’t safe.”

“Why? Alligators?”

“Yes. You can’t go into deep water. But there’s a shallow a little way up, where you can have a good splash. It’s only a matter of a few inches if you keep close to the bank – and you must keep close to it too. I’ve been in myself this morning – and by the same token it’s the last chance of tubbing we shall get. I’ll go as far as the rise and point you out the place.”

Half an hour later Sellon returned, reinvigorated by his bath and clamouring for breakfast.

The birds had been plucked and spread upon the embers, split open, spatchcock fashion, and when ready afforded our travellers a toothsome breakfast. Then they saddled up.

“We shan’t do our thirty miles to-day,” said Renshaw, as they rode along. “We started too late. But that won’t greatly matter. We have plenty of time, and it’s better to keep the horses fresh than to rush them through.”

“So it is. But, I say, this place is like the Umtirara Valley, minus the bush and the greenness.”

It was. As they rode on, the desolate wildness of the defile increased. Rocky slopes sparsely grown with stunted bush, the usual cliff formation cleaving the sky-line. Boulders large and small studded the valley, lying like so many houses on the hillsides or piled up in unpleasantly obstructive profusion, right along the line of march. Of animal life there was little enough. Here and there an armour-plated tortoise stalking solemnly among the stones, or a large bird of prey circling overhead – but of game, no sign. As the sun mounted higher and higher, pouring his rays into the defile as though focussed through a burning glass, the heat tried Sellon severely.

“This is awful,” he growled, for the fiftieth time, mopping his steaming face. “Is it going to be like this all the way?”

“It may be. But we shall have to do most of our moving about at night. We can take it easy now and off-saddle, and trek on again towards sundown. Until we actually begin our search, I know the ground by heart. Come now, Sellon, you must keep up your determination. It’s beastly trying, I know, for an unseasoned chap; but think of the end.”

“I believe I’ll get a sunstroke first,” was the dejected reply, as the speaker flung himself wearily on the ground.

“Not a bit of it. Here, have a drop of liquor – but you’d better take it weak, or it’ll do more harm than good.” And getting out a pannikin Renshaw poured in a little of the contents of his flask, judiciously diluting it from the water-skin slung across the pack-horse.

This water-skin, by the way, was an ingenious contrivance of his own, and of which he was not a little proud. Like its Eastern prototype – upon which it was modelled – it consisted of the dressed skin of a good-sized Angora kid – one of the legs serving for the spout.