Late one afternoon some natives carried an old man, wrapped in a
blanket, into Warner's camp and laid him down on the ground before the
tent. Warner came out.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A dead man, killed by a leopard."
"Why do you bring the dead man to me?"
"He said he wanted to come and told us he would curse us if we did not
bring him. We did not wish to trouble the Doctor with a dead man, but a
'dead man's curse' is a fearful thing."
Warned stooped and looked under the blanket. The man wasn't dead, he
opened his eyes.
Although far from dead, the native had been very badly mauled and had
lost a great quantity of blood. Tyro though he was, Warner could see
that his condition was serious. Stepping back into the tent, he poured
out half a tumbler of neat whisky and, lifting the man's head, made him
drain the glass. The effect upon the patient was immediate; he sat up
and began to talk rapidly, describing the accident.
"We were hunting, these dogs, those others, and I. We came upon a
leopard in the grass. One, who is not here, thrust an assegai through
her. She bit him in the arm and he ran away. Another, and neither is he
here, struck the leopard with his axe. She jumped on him and bit him in
the neck. He ran away crying out that she had killed him.
"A third, who did not return with us, broke her back with a club, but
she tore his thigh with her teeth. Then I went to her and pierced her
belly with my assegai. But she bit me in the arm and shoulder and clawed
me down the back. She also broke my assegai with her teeth so that it
was useless.
"Then, having nothing with which to kill her, I held her by the ears
with my two hands, calling to these slaves to come and finish her, for I
could see by her face that she was dying. But they were afraid and ran
away like women. And the leopard shook her head and my hands slipped
because of the blood which had run down my arm from my shoulder. And
when my hands came together, she took them in her mouth and crushed
them both. Then she died."
The man's hands were swollen and shapeless. He had a large gash and a
deep puncture in his shoulder, and his back was very badly scored.
After staring for a while at their companion, the natives who brought
him slipped quietly away, hastened in their departure, no doubt, by his
reference to the sorry part which they had played in the affair.
Warner was greatly pleased. He looked upon the coming of this wounded
man as a stroke of good fortune. Here at last was a straightforward
case, all clear and above board. And he knew exactly what to do.
Corrosive sublimate, one in ten thousand, wash the blood off, keep the
wounds clean, make the man comfortable.
He shouted for his kitchen boys and ordered warm water in large
quantities. He had not seen them go, so called the wounded man's
companions to build a shelter of grass and branches for him. When he
realised that they had gone, he set to work on the shelter himself.
For weeks Warner laboured on those wounds. The man improved slowly. As
he grew better he spoke of payment. Warner told him not to bother about
it, but he persisted.
"Have you not given me back my life?"
"What of it?"
"Are not those others dead?"
Now, this was true. The other wounded men who went to their homes all
died of blood-poisoning, and Warner's reputation grew in consequence.
But no matter what arguments and persuasions were used, Warner would not
hear of payment in any shape or form.
The man was obstinate.
"If I receive a gift from a man, must I not give one in return? Am I to
be shamed? Is it not the custom that a gift shall be received with a
gift? And gifts must be equal. What, then, shall I give to the Great
Doctor? What have I, a very poor man, of value equal to the life which
the Doctor has given back to me? I have no cattle and no sheep. I have a
few goats, very few, and I have some wild cats' skins. But what are
these to a life?"
Twice daily did Warner wash and dress the man's wounds. Each time the
man spoke of a gift for a gift. He seemed to feel his honour was at
stake.
At length the day came when Warner thought he could safely send his
patient away. The man's final protestations of gratitude and his
entreaties to be permitted to make some payment caused Warner much
embarrassment. He firmly declined to accept the merest trifle in return
for all his time and trouble. He would not be robbed of the feeling that
at length he had done some genuine good for good's sake.
Of course he could explain nothing of this to the old native.
The man was much troubled. He went away at length saying he would bring
next day the gift which he knew now the Doctor wanted. Warner repeated
that he wanted nothing and would take nothing.
Next morning, when Warner got up and came out of his tent, he found the
old man waiting for him. He was not alone. By his side sat a little
girl, the old man's daughter.
Warner remembered having seen her several times before during her
father's long illness. From time to time she had come with her mother to
inquire how the old man progressed and to bring him some horrid-looking
native delicacy.
"Here she is," said the late patient. "Here is my child. She is my only
one. You ask for her and I give her to you. A life for a life, which is
just."
Warner protested indignantly that he had not asked for the girl, that he
did not want her or anything else.
"See, she is strong," persisted the old man. "She is strong to carry
water, to grind grain. She is worth three cows, five goats and ten
hoes."
Warner became quite angry.
The old man was incredulous and distressed. He had somehow concluded
that Warner had really set his heart upon possessing his daughter, his
plain, fat little daughter and nothing else, but that, native-like, he
had not said so.
In the end Warner accepted, in self-defence, a mangy, evil-smelling
cat's skin.