terrified yell, was shrieking out for help. Poeskop was running up to
the rescue, and he afterwards affirmed that the boy had, beyond all
doubt, suddenly recovered his native tongue, and was crying out and
imploring assistance in Berg Damara. Tom rushed to the fire, seized
upon a long piece of burning wood, and with that ran back to the lion,
which was now dragging its unfortunate victim well beyond the circle of
the firelight, and belaboured the brute about the head and face with the
burning brand. It was a marvellously plucky act, but it was useless.
The fierce brute held on grimly to its prey, and merely hastened its
pace, now moving at a swift trot. Tom turned to rush for his rifle, and
in the same instant something seemed to flash out from the darkness, and
knocked him down. It was a lioness, which, as Poeskop and Guy came
running up with their weapons, stood over the lad, growling horribly--a
fierce, throaty, menacing growl--as if daring them to come on.
Guy and the Bushman fired together, and at the twin report the lioness,
shot through heart and brain, sank quietly down upon Tom, and lay stark
dead. At this moment Mr. Blakeney came up to their assistance. Between
them they dragged the grim brute off Tom, who was by this time nearly
suffocated. A full-grown lion weighs a good deal more than twice as
much as a heavy man, and Tom, although happily not seriously hurt, was
pretty well flattened, and had most of his breath knocked out of him.
They got him to his feet, felt him all over, and asked anxiously if he
was hurt.
"N--no!" gasped the lad; "I'm--all--right--I think. G--go on after
Peter. Hark! He's there somewhere. The other lion's got him. Hark!"
They listened for a moment. There came faint, agonized cries from out
the darkness. They were the unfortunate wild boy's last appeals. They
ceased. All was still.
"Bring fire-sticks," cried out Mr. Blakeney. "You, Poeskop, stay with
Baas Tom, and get him to the fire. Guy, Jan, Seleti, come with me. You,
Mangwalaan, stay by the oxen."
Jan Kokerboom and Seleti armed themselves with flaming brands, and the
four advanced into the darkness. They could see little beyond a dozen
feet in front of them. Again they listened. The wild boy's voice was
no more heard, but in its place there came from the outer darkness a
sickening scrunching of bones. It was the lion devouring his victim,
apparently some forty yards away.
"Oh," cried Mr. Blakeney, "I can't stand this. We must go on." They
moved forward ten yards, and then, from some thick bush in front of
them, there came a low, cavernous, threatening growl from the brute,
disturbed at its prey. Mr. Blakeney and Guy fired together, and
reloaded. They could hear the man-killer dragging the unfortunate lad
yet farther into the bush. Again they fired. Now the men's torches were
getting low. Still they advanced again, though much against the will of
the two natives.
"Baas," whispered Jan Kokerboom, "this is madness. My fire-stick will be
out in another minute, and we shall all be killed by the lions. There
are more about. I have heard them."
Still Mr. Blakeney and Guy pushed on a few yards farther, until their
advance was barred by thicker and stronger bush.
"It's useless, Guy," said Mr. Blakeney, in a stern voice. "We've done
all we can. We must go back. By this time the poor creature is dead,
undoubtedly. It's a bad job, but we can do no more. Come!"
They turned quickly, and with the torches flickering out made their way
back to the camp fires. For the rest of that night they got little
rest. Tom first had to be attended to. The lioness in her attack had
badly shaken him; but beyond some deep scratches inflicted by one paw on
the back of the shoulder as she held him down, he was unhurt. These
wounds were dressed with carbolic and water, as usual. Two hours later
an attack made by another pair of lions on the cattle scherms was
successfully repelled, and an old, worn-out lion shot through the thorn
fence by Jan Kokerboom and Mangwalaan. Towards dawn the white men slept
for a couple of hours or so.
After breakfast they prepared to take vengeance upon the murderer of the
unfortunate wild boy. Mr. Blakeney wished much to persuade Tom to stay
behind and help Seleti and Mangwalaan to look after the camp.
"No, pater," pleaded Tom; "this is really my business. You know what an
interest I took in the poor little chap. In a way I looked on him as
belonging to me. I'll keep behind. My shoulder is not very bad, and I
can, at all events, carry a spare rifle in case you need it."
Mr. Blakeney gave way, and the three, accompanied by Poeskop and Jan
Kokerboom, went forth on their mission of vengeance. With them they
took the wagon dogs to aid in hunting up the lion. They had little
difficulty in finding the path of the man-eater. In the thorns, through
which the fierce brute had dragged its victim, were to be seen shreds of
the poor wild boy's old flannel shirt and knickerbockers, bestowed upon
him by his young master. Here was where the monster had bitten through
the poor little fellow's neck and finished him, and had even begun to
devour some of his flesh. A large dark patch of blood and other hideous
traces marked the spot. Farther on they came to a more grisly relic.
In a little clearing, among some dense bush, there lay the head and the
right forearm and hand of the unfortunate boy. Both had been severed
easily from the trunk.
Tom turned with horror from these sad relics.
"Pater," he said, "if I were not so mad with the brute that did this, I
think I should be sick. If you and Guy don't kill the monster, I will."
"We'll kill him, my boy," said his father grimly, "even if we have to
follow him all day."
They moved on in silence, and, after going three hundred yards farther,
spoored the lion and its prey to a dense, triangular piece of bush lying
close to the little stream that ran through the valley. Poeskop quickly
ran round this piece of bush, and made certain that the murderous brute
had gone no farther. Mr. Blakeney now disposed his little force so as
to command each side of the triangle. Poeskop and Guy crossed the
stream, and guarded that side. Jan Kokerboom kept watch at the point
where the lion had entered, well in sight of Mr. Blakeney, who, with Tom
carrying a spare rifle, took the angle on the extreme right. Then the
dogs, which had followed hot upon the trail, were cheered into the
thicket. They were a plucky lot of curs, well used to this kind of
work, and they did their duty well. Plunging into the bush and
undergrowth, they quickly told that the game was afoot.
"To him, Nero! To him, Nelson! Push him up, Ponto!" cried Mr.
Blakeney, in his strong, clear voice. The dogs, encouraged at the sound,
renewed their attack.
"Push him out, boys!" again cried their master heartily. "Have at him,
Nero!"
Nero, a huge, brindled cross-bred, half mastiff, half greyhound, with a
touch of bull--a true Boer mongrel, picked up in the Transvaal--plunges
into the fray again, well backed by the rest of the pack. The lion can
stand the baiting no longer, and, creeping noiselessly through the
covert, suddenly appears within thirty paces of where Mr. Blakeney
stands ready for him. Seeing his adversary, the brute, his mouth and
face still darkly smeared with the blood of his victim, bares his teeth,
puts his head down, growls savagely, and, lashing his tail a few times
from side to side, takes two or three stealthy strides right out into
the open. Then suddenly he elevates his tail, straight and rigid as a
poker. Mr. Blakeney knows the danger signal well; his nerves are like
iron; he is as steady as if he were shooting at a francolin. Already he
is down on one knee, the better to get his shot. Tom stands staunchly
at his flank, ready with the second rifle. Taking swift aim, Mr.
Blakeney pulls the trigger; the heavy .500 bullet strikes the man-eater
full in the chest, and, raking the body and tearing through heart and
lungs, instantly finishes its career. The brute falls to the shot, and
after a convulsive struggle or two rolls over dead. Never again will he
slay the shuddering Berg Damaras, or murder a harmless boy.
Tom's hat went flying up into the air.
"Hurrah!" he cried, in his high, cheery voice. "Well shot, pater!
We've killed the brute, and avenged poor Peter. Hurrah!"
Guy came bursting round the corner of the covert, and, seeing the
triumph, added two more "hurrahs" to Tom's exultant shouts.
There, in truth, lay the murderous brute, and the poor, innocent wild
boy was avenged. He was a huge, dark-maned lion, fat and in high
condition, and in the very prime of his strength. Poeskop and Jan now
came running up, full of joy and congratulations.
"Ah, baas! that is a great lion," said the Bushman. "I never saw a
bigger or a heavier. Look at his forepaws. Why, he could kill an ox as
easily as I could kill a chicken. The Berg Damaras up yonder may well
be glad. Two lions killed last night, and this old _mannetje_ this
morning. They will sleep in peace for a long time to come."
While Jan Kokerboom set to work to skin the lion, Poeskop, by Mr.
Blakeney's directions, made his way into the thicket to see if he could
discover any further remains of the unfortunate Peter. Meanwhile, a
number of the Berg Damaras, guided by the rifle shot, had made their way
down to the spot. Their delight on discovering, not only that the
man-eater had been slain that morning, but that a lion and lioness had
also been killed during the night, was very great. Something of their
load of depression seemed lifted from their spirits. They even began to
smile, a thing none of the English party had observed during the
previous day. As to the death of their kinsman, the unfortunate Peter,
they seemed not in the least affected; but, as Mr. Blakeney pointed out
to the boys, wandering tribesfolk, such as Bushmen and Berg Damaras and
the like, lead such precarious lives, and are so often confronted by
death, danger, and starvation, that they become callous and indifferent
to suffering, whether it affects themselves or others.
Poeskop presently returned. Beyond a few bones and a piece or two of
flesh, he had found no further traces of the boy. The lion had devoured
him. They returned to camp, leaving the Berg Damaras to deal as they
pleased with the now flayed carcass of the dead lion. With this and the
flesh of the other two lions the poor wretches seemed highly delighted.
The hearts of these beasts, the headman explained, when they had eaten
them, would give them courage, and the rest of the flesh and fat would
be useful to them. Returning up the valley, Guy shot a fine waterbuck
bull. After taking the horns and skin, this also was handed over to the
tribes-people, who were now well provided with meat. The flesh of the
waterbuck is coarse and unpleasant, and not at all palatable to
Europeans; and as the hunters had plenty of meat at their camp, the Berg
Damaras were welcome to this fresh food supply. On reaching camp Tom
took a spade, and, with Guy, went out to bury the poor remains of Peter,
the wild boy--the head and the severed arm. Tom returned from his task
sorrowful enough, and was depressed and quiet for the rest of the day.
"Poor little Peter!" he said that evening at supper. "His meeting with
us, which we all thought such a fine thing for him, was but a miserable
bit of luck after all. I do believe, if he had remained with the
baboons, he might have lived for years."
"Ay, Tom," rejoined his father, "it's a strange world; and human
destiny, whether in the case of the black man or the white, is one of
the most inexplicable of all mysteries. Still, we did the right thing
in rescuing poor Peter. Think of it. What an existence would have been
his if we had not discovered him. To live with the beasts of the
field--and such beasts as baboons--surely even you, Tom, fond as you
were of the little chap, could never have wished him such a fate."
"No, pater, I suppose not," acknowledged Tom; "but it was a cruel end.
I shall never forget the little fellow, and it will be a long while
before I shall get his death-scream out of my memory."
*Chapter XIII.*
*GUY IS MISSING.*
More than a month had elapsed since the beginning of the trek. They
were now, as Poeskop had informed them, within little more than a week's
journey from the kloof of gold of which they were in search. It was
full a week since they had left the Berg Damara village behind, and they
had progressed well and steadily during the interval. One morning Mr.
Blakeney and Tom had ridden out together in search of game. Guy was
sitting on the wagon, for a change taking a rest, going through some of
his specimens, and packing away odds and ends. They were trekking
across a wide, open grass plain, whereon various herds of game, for the
most part hartebeest, blue wildebeest, and Burchell's zebra, were to be
seen grazing in the distance. At half-past twelve the oxen were
outspanned, and a halt was made. Guy, having finished his work and
eaten some lunch, was now, with the aid of the Ross stalking-glass,
ranging the wide grass flats, watching the various troops of game, and
wondering what kind of luck his uncle and cousin were having. It had
been a most beautiful morning. The hot, rather suffocating winds, which
had been blowing persistently from the north for the last few days, had
vanished. A most cool and refreshing breeze now came up gently from the
south, borne from the cool regions of the far Antarctic; and there was a
feeling of vigour in the sparkling atmosphere which, albeit it was now
just past high noon, made Guy's restless English blood eager for action.
As he looked, he suddenly spied through the clear telescope a single
ostrich, stalking across the veldt. It was a long way off--five miles
certainly--but he would go after it. Telling Seleti to saddle up his
pony, Guy's preparations were soon made. After their experiences in the
thirst-land, he was not going to take any more unnecessary risks, and he
had fastened to his saddle his water-bottle, coat, and a hunting case
containing a little food. Thus equipped, he picked up his sporting
Martini rifle--he had lent Tom his Mannlicher--and, swinging himself
lightly into the saddle, rode off at a brisk canter, humming, in the
lightness of his heart, a cheerful song. Poeskop gazed admiringly after
him as he rode away.
"There goes a proper young baas!" he said to Jan Kokerboom, as they sat
at their meal. "'Tis a fine thing to be an Englishman." Jan admitted
that it was, and Guy's figure gradually receded into the distance.
Guy rode steadily for five or six miles, at the end of which he
discovered that the ostrich had been moving away north-westward, and was
still two or three miles distant. Some light bush now hid it from view,
and, taking advantage of this screen, Guy pressed on until he saw that
he was about to enter upon the plain again. Before issuing from the
bush, he got off and carefully examined the country in front of him.
Yes, there was the ostrich right enough, feeding quietly less than a
mile away. It was a splendid cock bird, and its white plumes, showing
up finely against its black body colouring, made Guy long to possess
them. Walking his horse out of the covert, Guy now touched the good
beast with his spur and galloped for the big bird, hoping to get a shot
at it before it had discovered that the approaching object was anything
more than a zebra. It was a wild, unfrequented veldt, and surely,
argued Guy to himself, an ostrich in these parts would not be very
suspicious. Half a mile was covered. He was now within seven hundred
yards of the bird; surely he was going to get a fair shot directly.
But even as he thus flattered himself, he was discovered. The ostrich's
head went up, and then, with a limp and a flutter of the wing feathers,
the bird moved off. It went so lame that Guy at once perceived that
something was the matter with it. So much the better--he would have an
easy victory. Suddenly, fifty yards in front of him, there rose from
the long grass veldt another ostrich, a hen bird manifestly. Nothing
ailed her, and she rushed away like a steam engine, covering whole
leagues, as it were, in her enormous strides. Guy reached the place
whence she had started, and saw, as he expected, a nest full of huge,
shining eggs. At a swift glance, as he galloped by, he reckoned that
there must have been twelve or fourteen of them. But he had no time to
attend to them now; he would ride back that way, and take toll of them
as he went to the wagon. For the moment all his energies and attention
were centred on the maimed or sick bird in front of him, the
magnificence of whose plumes he could now plainly discern.
He galloped, but still the limping creature managed, not only to keep a
start, but even to increase its lead. In a while it squatted, as if it
had reached the end of its tether, and Guy thought now surely it was
his. It was not so, however. As he approached within four hundred
yards the great bird rose and pursued its way, stumbling, staggering
occasionally, as if it would fall on its head, and flapping its wings,
plainly in great distress. It was very annoying that, notwithstanding
its apparent sickness, the bird could yet manage as it did to keep
going. Mile after mile went by, and still the ostrich stumbled along,
just beyond reasonable shooting distance. Once again, having gained a
fresh lead, in response to a long spurt on the part of Guy, it sat down
again; and once more Guy was most provokingly baulked of what he now
looked upon as his legitimate booty--those magnificent plumes that waved
and dangled so annoyingly, just beyond reach of his trusty Martini.
The lad had now become downright angry. That bird should be his, if he
had to ride till evening; and so, about five hundred yards still
separating them, the hunted and the hunter moved swiftly across the
plain for another mile. Three o'clock went by--four o'clock--surely the
bird would soon give in! But now it was running quite differently.
There was no trace of the falterings and stumblings that he had so long
noticed. The cock was apparently quite recovered, and running as
strongly and as straight as had its mate. Then suddenly there flashed
upon Guy's mind what had happened. The creature had been playing the
fool with him all this time. It had simulated lameness and sickness,
just as will a plover or a partridge, merely to decoy him away from its
nest, which he had by a lucky chance ridden by and discovered.
Guy smiled grimly to himself as the cleverness of the whole ruse was
borne in upon him. Nevertheless, he was wild with vexation; and setting
his teeth, he said to himself very softly that he would make it hot for
the shamming bird yet. And, indeed, he did so. He was now full twenty
miles from camp; hills and kopjes rose not very far in front of
him--hills which, now ruddy brown and plain to see, looked four hours
ago blue in the distance. His pony was a good one, and in first-rate
condition. It was not by any means at the end of its resources, and Guy
called upon it for one more long and sustained effort. Two more miles
were past. Then Guy, to his joy, discovered that the ostrich was really
coming back to him. The long and persistent chase under the hot sun had
at last told upon it. He had certainly gained one hundred and fifty
yards in the last hour.
Once more the great bird set itself going, and raced away. So rapid was
its flight that it seemed as if Guy and his nag were this time to be
completely distanced. But it was soon very plain what the bird was
aiming at. It was trying for an offing, so as to work its way round to
the right, and thus, as evening fell, regain its mate and her nest once
more. Guy saw the manoeuvre, and, galloping across the wide arc that
the ostrich was now making, managed, by dint of pressing his pony for
another and a final effort, to cut it off. The foolish bird stuck
obstinately to its point; its pace was now slackening; and Guy succeeded
in getting within fifty yards of its line. Slipping off his pony, he
fired as the big bird came by, and, aiming well forward, struck the
ostrich fair in the body. Even so tough a creature as this, the largest
of all feathered fowl, could not resist the impact of a solid Martini
bullet at fifty paces, and the bird suddenly fell dead in its tracks, a
mere quivering bundle of flesh and feathers.
It was a splendid prize. Guy, as he walked up and looked at the dead
bird, saw at once that the plumage was magnificent. Knee-haltering his
pony, and taking off its saddle, he now refreshed himself after his
desperate ride, and set to work to divest his capture of its finest
plumage. The white feathers were magnificent, and Guy could scarcely
admire them sufficiently. Making neat bundles of the prime whites, the
shorter whites, the beautiful black and white plumes, and the black
feathers, he now saddled up again, slung the longest feathers over his
back, fastened the rest to his saddle, and mounted.
The point now to be decided was, What should he do for the night? He
knew that the camp lay away behind him, far across the dry and weary
plain. But it was twenty long miles away; his pony was very tired and
thirsty; and in the darkness now coming on he might easily lose his
direction. Only a mile or two in front of him rose the line of low
hills. Here he was pretty sure to find water for his pony. On the
whole, it seemed better to make his way thither, water his pony, light a
good fire, rest till early morning, and then ride back to camp. Having
thus decided, he rode his nag at a walk for the kopjes. Night was
falling rapidly as he entered the hills. After following an open valley
for a quarter of a mile, he came, as he expected, to a vlei of water,
recruited by a fountain flowing from the hill above. Here he
off-saddled for the night. His pony drank till it cared to drink no
more. Meanwhile he cut some grass for fodder, tied his nag to a bush,
collected wood for a fire, and, taking out the meat and bread he had
brought with him, ate his supper.
His position was a well-chosen one. At his back he had an impenetrable
screen of thick bush and rock. He had seen no indication of lions as he
rode into the hills. A big fire blazed cheerfully in front of him, and
plenty of wood lay handy so soon as its first strength died away. The
lad was very sleepy after his long ride. He lay for an hour or more
gazing drowsily into the red blaze in front of him, turning over in his
mind the events of the afternoon, and following with a feeling of placid
contentment the shifting scenes depicted in the heart of the fire by
various pieces of burning wood. His pony munched its food contentedly
close to his head. Gradually his eyes closed, his head sank deeper into
the saddle which formed his pillow, and he slept.
Guy had not enjoyed the blessed oblivion of slumber more than an
hour--it seemed to him not a minute since he had closed his eyes--when
he was suddenly and most rudely awakened. Strong hands gripped him
fiercely on either side, and pinned him to the ground. With a cry he
tried to spring to his feet. But his hands and feet were both securely
held. He struggled violently, but his struggles were ineffectual
against superior strength and numbers. Almost before he was fully awake
he was bound hand and foot, and lay helpless in the hands of his
captors. Then he had time to look about him. The light of the fire
showed him that his assailants were four in number, two white men and
two black. The faces of the white men were known to him. It was with
something like a shock of dismay that he realized the fact that he was
in the hands of Karl Engelbrecht and Antonio Minho, who were now
regarding him, as they stood over him, with unmistakable signs of
triumph on their unpleasant faces.
"What's all this about?" cried the lad angrily in Dutch. "And what do
you mean by attacking me in this way? You shall suffer for it, and that
before many hours are over."
"Softly, my young friend," answered Minho, a bantering smile
illuminating his oily, yellow face. "You go a little too fast. You,
and not Karl and myself, are likely to be the suffering party. We find
you are necessary to our plans, and so we invite you to come with us.
If you keep a civil tongue and behave yourself, we shall treat you
reasonably well. If you are troublesome and impertinent, you will be
corrected."
"Ja," added the slower-tongued Boer, who had by this time found his
speech. "We shall stand no nonsense from you. Keep your mouth shut,
you schepsel, unless you are spoken to. We want no tantrums, and no
noise. If you don't behave, we shall teach you to, and that with the
sjambok." As he spoke the great Boer touched significantly his riding
whip of giraffe hide, just now stuck through his belt.