A SCRAP OF EVIDENCE.
Oscar had often told himself that the Dutchmen who first settled in
Africa must have had a keen sense of the fitness of things when they
named these bushes "wait-a-bits." They were as full of thorns as a
rosebush. The thorns were two or three inches in length, and the ends
were turned down into little hooks that were both sharp and strong. They
were continually pulling off his hat or catching in his clothing, and
then he was obliged to "wait a bit" before he could extricate himself
from their grasp. How the Kaffir managed it, with his bare feet and no
clothes at all on worth speaking of, was a mystery; but he got through
somehow, and he did not make half as much fuss about it as Oscar did.
There was one thing in their favor, however--these bushes did not
extend far into the grove. They grew only in the outskirts of it, and
after they had been passed the way was comparatively clear.
This particular thicket was not more than twenty yards wide, but it took
them almost half an hour to get through it.
The honey-bird kept them company all the time, hovering over their heads
and chirping loudly, as if he were trying, in his bird's way, to
encourage them.
Just as they pushed the last bush away, and stepped out into the little
open space on the other side of the thicket, four of the dogs appeared.
It was well for at least one of the hunters that they did so, for their
keen sense of smell enabled them to detect the presence of something
that Oscar did not expect to find there.
"I think we have reached the spot, Thompson," said Oscar, pointing to a
tree in which their little guide was hopping about. The bird seemed to
be excited now, for his movements were quick and nervous, and he showed
no disposition to go any further. "The honey must be in that tree. You
go around that way, and see if you can find a hole in it, and I'll go
this way."
The hunters moved off in different directions, but had not made more
than half a dozen steps when the dogs became aware that there was
something in the bushes that grew around the foot of the tree in
question.
The thicket was too small to conceal any very large animal, and Oscar's
first thought was that the dogs had winded a snake, probably a poisonous
mamba--a species that frequents the timber, and is not often found on
the open plain. Its bite is deadly, and the natives affirm that it will
chase a man for the purpose of biting him.
"I don't know but McCann was right, after all," said Oscar as he backed
away from the thicket. "If there is a snake in there I'll spoil your
head for you, my treacherous friend, so that you'll not fool anybody
else as you have fooled me, and I'll make war on your kind so long as I
stay in Africa. Thompson, look around and see if you can find a stick.
Our chances for hitting so small an object as a snake with a rifle-ball
are rather---- Eh? Do you see him?"
Just then the dogs rushed at the thicket, barking loudly, and the
Kaffir, who had been closely examining the bushes, raised his rifle with
a quick movement, and fired at something he saw there.
The next moment, with every hair on his body sticking toward his head,
his mouth wide open, showing a frightful array of teeth, his eyes
flashing with fury, and the blood trickling from a wound in his side,
out bounded a magnificent leopard.
The dogs scattered right and left, but one of them was not quick enough
in his movements to escape instant death. He was knocked flat by a blow
from the paw of the enraged animal, which, after making two or three
high short springs, growling savagely all the while, halted and faced
about, as if he had made up his mind to run no further.
Laying his chin down between his fore paws, and waving his tail from
side to side, as a cat does when she is watching a mouse, the fierce
animal fastened his eyes upon Oscar, whom he seemed to have singled out
as a victim; but instead of creeping toward him he writhed backward, as
if he were measuring off the distance he intended to clear when he made
his spring.
Then came the critical moment. The animal drew his cat-like ears flat
down against his head, and at the same instant two ready fingers pressed
the triggers. The reports sounded like one, and the leopard, arrested in
his leap before he had fairly left the ground, rolled over on his side,
powerless for mischief.
Oscar's rifle spoke again a few seconds later, and the honey-bird came
fluttering down from his perch. His head was spoiled, sure enough, for
it was shot from his body.
"He'll never fool any more hunters," said Oscar as he walked up to
examine the leopard after reloading both barrels of his rifle. "I say,
Thompson, I think you have earned a musket by this day's work. You put
two balls into him very cleverly. If this is the way you are going to
back me up when I get into trouble I shall be your debtor for ten
pounds when we get back to Maritzburg. We don't want any honey, do we?
This fellow's mate may be loafing about in some of these thickets, and
the best thing we can do is to get out of here."
It was hard work to carry their prize through those thorn bushes. The
leopard was not very heavy at the start,--he did not begin to be as
large as either of the hyenas Oscar had secured the day before,--but he
grew heavy before they got him out to the plain.
When they reached the edge of the grove Oscar was glad to sit down and
rest, while the Kaffir went in pursuit of the horses, which had been
alarmed by the noise of the fight, and would no doubt have made the best
of their way back to the wagon if they had not hobbled themselves by
putting their feet through their bridle-reins.
No amount of coaxing could induce Little Gray to consent to carry the
leopard to camp, and the Kaffir's horse objected so strenuously to
having anything at all to do with the matter that Oscar was obliged to
lash his prize fast to the saddle, while the Kaffir clung to his nag
with both hands to keep him from running away.
When this had been done Oscar mounted Little Gray and turned him toward
the wagon; but before he reached it he met with two surprises. The first
came about in this way:
While he was riding along, with his gaze fastened thoughtfully on the
ground, and wondering how many narrow escapes an African hunter could
have before some wild beast succeeded in getting the better of him, his
eye chanced to fall upon something that instantly arrested his
attention.
In Eaton he had probably walked over such objects a dozen times in a
day, and never noticed them at all; but they were so uncommon in the
wilds of Africa that the sight of this one interested him at once--so
much so that he swung himself from his horse and picked it up.
It proved to be a piece of brown envelope. Inside of it was a strip of
white paper, at which he gazed in the greatest amazement. It was part of
the map that his friend Mr. Lawrence had drawn for him. Scarcely able
to credit the evidence of his eyes, Oscar put the paper into his pocket
and climbed back into his saddle.
"How, in the name of all that's mysterious and bewildering, did that map
get scattered about in this way?" he kept saying to himself, and every
time he asked the question he took the paper out of his pocket and
looked at it again. "It certainly is my map--or all there is left of it.
I would know it if I had picked it up in the streets of London; but if I
_had_ found it there I could not be more surprised than I am to find it
here. I am sure that I put it in the third pocket on the right-hand side
of the tent, and how in the world---- I wonder if McCann----"
Oscar took off his hat and dug his fingers into his head to stir up his
ideas. That name suggested something to him, and brought back to his
memory a good many little incidents that had happened since he left
Zurnst--all trivial enough in themselves, but which when taken together
made up a weight of evidence against the after-rider (an after-rider
only in name) that was overwhelming.
"I ought to have been on the lookout for some such thing as this,"
thought Oscar, who, beyond a doubt, would have come to an open rupture
with McCann if the latter had been near him at that moment. "He has done
everything he could to discourage me. He has put the brakes on the wagon
when we were going up hill in order to make the oxen part the trek-tow;
he has tried to lead me out of my course, and make me lose my way on the
plain, so that he could turn me back to Zurnst; he has told the most
dreadful stories of the dangers I was running into, and tried over and
over again to make me promise that I would secure what specimens I could
here, and then go back; and, as a last resort, he has destroyed my map.
It must have been McCann, for there is no one else about the wagon who
knows the value of that piece of paper."
Oscar felt savage enough during the rest of the ride, and consequently
he was just in the right humor to act--and to act resolutely--in an
emergency that presently arose.
While he was thinking about McCann, and wondering if there were any way
in which he could satisfy himself of the man's guilt before he openly
charged him with destroying the map, an exclamation from his after-rider
aroused him.
He looked up and found that he was in plain view of the fountain. The
oxen were gathered on the bank, and on the opposite side of them were
the driver and fore-loper, who were shouting and cracking their whips to
turn the cattle away from the fountain.
On the opposite bank of the water-course were four wagons, and a drove
of strange oxen were just coming down to the fountain to drink.
"Visitors!" cried Oscar, shaking his bridle-rein and putting his horse
into a gallop. "I hope they are English or Scotch; but even if they are
Dutchmen, and can't understand a word I say, I shall give them a hearty
welcome. I didn't know before that I was so lonely."
In a few moments Oscar met his oxen, which had been turned about with
their heads toward the plain, and also his driver, who hurried up to
him with a face full of news.
"Hi, baas!" he exclaimed. "Boer man shoot ox."
"What?" shouted Oscar.
"Yaas; shoot dead," replied the Hottentot, who was all excitement.
"Shoot _all_ dead. No let drink water."
Greatly bewildered, Oscar looked around for McCann, and seeing him
following after the herd, galloped around to meet him.
"What's the trouble here?" he asked. "To whom do those wagons belong?"
"The owners are Dutch transport-riders, who are on their way to the
Kalahari Desert--Sechelle's country, you know--to trade for feathers and
ivory," answered McCann. "They arrived here about half an hour ago."
"What does Ferguson mean by saying that they will not let my oxen
drink?" continued Oscar.
"He means that the Boers want all the water for their own cattle, and
swear that they will shoot any strange ox or horse that comes near the
fountain," replied McCann. "Knowing that they are not the kind of
people who make idle threats, I thought it best to keep the stock away
from the water until you came."
Oscar was almost ready to boil over with rage. He had never heard of
such a piece of impudence before in all his life.