Great was the astonishment in camp when the man who had been given up as
hopelessly missing, and whom everybody by this time had come to think of
as dead, turned up safe and sound. Jaded and worn out, however, he
sought his tent at once, excusing himself from receiving the hearty
congratulations of his friends until after the sleep of which he stood
so sorely in need.
Waking at last he opened his eyes, with a start, upon the genial
countenance of the Irish doctor.
"Hallo, McShane!"
"An' what the divil have ye been up to now, Claverton?" began that
worthy, without any further ceremony. "Here ye've managed to get off
bein' made mincemeat of by the niggurs, and, not content with that, ye
must get to punching a fellow's head, and now he wants to have a shot at
ye, av course."
"Does he?" said Claverton, drily.
"He does."
"H'm! Well, sit down and have a pipe, McShane, and we'll talk it
quietly over."
"Ah! that sounds better," said the good-natured Irishman, in a tone of
relief, for he was hoping that the affair might admit of a settlement.
"See here, now--what's it all about? Truscott wants to parade you, and
sent me to arrange matters, and that's about the size of it. Now who
acts for you?"
"No one."
"No one? Well, then, I suppose you'll shake hands together, and say
you're both made fools of yourselves," said McShane, brightening up.
"You're quite wrong, McShane. I'm going to give your friend the fullest
satisfaction--when, where, and as soon as he pleases," and the look in
the speaker's eyes caused the Irishman's hopes to fall to the ground.
"When I said no one acted for me, I meant it. I'm going to act for
myself, or better still, you can act for both."
"Och! an' it's balderdash ye're talkin'," rejoined the other, angrily.
"How the divil can I be second to both? Bedad, an' who ever heard of
such a thing! I'D have nothing to say to it, I tell ye."
"Well, then, you see, McShane, it'll amount to this--that we shall go
out without any seconds at all; which will probably mean that the first
of us who catches sight of the other will blaze away; for I don't trust
our friend any more than I do Sandili himself. _I'm_ quite ready,
however; but I don't intend to run any other fellow's head into this
business. Who is there, for instance? Brathwaite--family man; Hicks,
ditto; and so on. Poor Jack might have done, but he's passed on his
cheque. No; as you have agreed to act for the other fellow, well and
good; I'm quite satisfied. But, I tell you, there's no one I can rely
upon." And lighting his pipe he passed the match to his companion, with
a hand as steady as a rock.
For a long time McShane was firm. He would have nothing to do with so
preposterous an arrangement--it wasn't fair to him--and so on. But,
eventually, seeing that they were determined to fight, and would
probably do more mischief if left to themselves, he reluctantly agreed
to act. They were a couple of fools, he thought; and would wing each
other, perhaps; but on any graver contingency the light-hearted Irishman
never reckoned.
"That's all right, McShane," said Claverton. "I shall leave everything
to you, as far as your man is concerned, and if there's any advantage to
be had it shall be yours."
Then they arranged that the affair should come off that same night
towards ten o'clock, in a lonely glen at a safe distance from the camp,
and known to both of them. But, to avoid suspicion, they agreed to
leave the camp at different times, and to ride in different directions.
"I tell you what it is, Claverton, this fellow's a damned good shot,"
said McShane, as he got up to leave.
"Is he? All the better--for him. But how d'you know?"
"He says so."
"Oh! I see. H'm! Brag's a good dog. He shall have every advantage,
as I said before. Well--till this evening."
McShane went out, sorely puzzled, and heartily wishing he was out of it.
In a moment of impulsive good-nature he had consented to act for
Truscott when mad with rage. That worthy had given his own version of
what had occurred, and besought his good offices; and then, being a
thorough Irishman, there was a subtle spell hanging about a row in any
shape that was altogether too potent for him, and Truscott happened to
be an old schoolfellow of his, though he, McShane, had never liked him
much, nor did he now. And if he had cherished any hopes of talking
Claverton over, they were scattered now. There was a deadly purpose in
the latter's speech and manner, all the more so because so quiet. No;
things must take their chance.
Left to himself, Claverton sat for a few minutes in silent rumination.
Then he got up, and, opening a chest, took out a polished wooden case
and unlocked it, disclosing a revolver. It was a beautifully-finished
weapon, small, but carrying a bullet of the regulation calibre, and on a
silver plate let into the ebony handle were graven the initials "H.S."
"Poor Spalding!" he murmured. "You were going to cut the knot of your
difficulties with this little article once, and so am I, but in a
different way."
He scrutinised the weapon narrowly, clicking the lock two or three
times, and taking imaginary aim.
The poise was perfect.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
How calm and peaceful rides the silver-wheeled chariot of night! How
tranquil, in their mysterious distance, shine the golden stars, darting
a twinkling glance down into this still, out-of-the-world hollow, where
not even the chirp of an insect or the rustle of a disturbed leaf breaks
the absolute hush of the night! On the one hand a wall of jagged rock
rises to a serrated ridge, standing out sharp and clear; on the other,
the sprays of the clustering foliage are photographed in shining
distinctness. Above, in a towering background, a great mountain peak
rears itself, dim and misty, enflooded in the slumbrous moonlight. A
scene of eternal beauty--a holy calm as of another world!
But, lo! Standing within the shade of the thick foliage is the figure
of a man--erect, motionless, as though petrified. For nearly an hour
has he maintained his immovable attitude; and now a suspicion of a start
runs through his frame. He is listening intently, for the ring of a bit
and the tramp of hoofs becomes audible. It is one of those nights when
the most distant of sounds would seem to be even at one's elbow; and now
this sound draws nearer and nearer, and, in addition, a word or two in
smothered tones. The listener's face wears a ruthless look as two
horsemen enter the glade and, reining in, peer cautiously around.
"Perhaps our valiant friend is going to cry off," sneered one of them.
"Cry off? The divil a bit!" was the reply. "Claverton's all there, I
can tell ye. He'll turn up in a minute."
"Thank you, McShane," struck in a voice, in the same low, cautious tone,
as the watcher glided from his concealment.
"Och! there ye are! Now, we'd better get to business at once. First of
all, we'd better lave the horses here close at hand in case we should
want them."
This was done, the three steeds being fastened securely to a small
mimosa tree.
"I say, you fellows," said the kindly Irish doctor, "is it determined to
go through with it you are? Bedad, and hadn't you better shake hands,
and go straight home and have a brew o' punch together? Faith, an' it's
better than riddlin' each other with lead."
"My dear McShane, what on earth will you propose next?" said Claverton,
while Truscott's face, glowering with rage in the moonlight, was answer
enough on his part.
"Ah, well I see it's blood-lettin' ye mane. Now ye'll just both o' ye
sign this bit o' paper. It's meself that would rather be out of it. A
duel with only one second! Why, it's like an election with only one
candidate--he gets kicked by both sides and thanked by neither, bedad."
The "bit of paper" in question set forth that Dennis McShane acted in
the matter at the joint request of both parties, and it was a precaution
which he had deemed advisable to take in case the transaction should
terminate disastrously, or at any future time be brought to light--or
both. Without a word each affixed his signature, and then Dennis
proceeded to pace out the ground. The duel was to be fought with
six-shooters, the first three shots at twenty-five, and the rest at
twenty paces.
"Now ye'd better look at each other's pistols, as there's no one to do
it for ye," he said.
What was it that made Truscott start and turn a shade whiter, and nearly
let his adversary's weapon fall as he took it into his hand to examine
it? We have said that it was a beautifully-finished weapon, with a
silver plate let into the handle, and on this, standing out distinctly
in the moonlight, were the initials "H.S." And Claverton, narrowly
watching his enemy's countenance, noted this effect and wondered not a
little. These formalities over, the doctor proceeded to reload the
weapons, which were both of the same calibre. Then he placed the
combatants, twenty-five paces apart, taking scrupulous care that each
should enjoy an equal proportion of advantage from the moonlight.
Truscott, to do him justice, was no coward. He had come there fully
determined to slay his adversary if he could; and as for his own share
of the risk, why, that must be left to the fortune of war. But, when
his eye fell upon those initials, something very like a shiver ran
through him. There was something portentous in the sight of this relic
of the past rising up as it were in judgment upon him, here in this
lonely nook, away at the other side of the world. There was no
mistaking the weapon, he knew it only too well, for he had handled it
often. It was the identical one. He would have gone so far as to
object to it; but what valid reason could he give, seeing that in size
and calibre it was an exact facsimile of his own? No; things must take
their chance. But he felt greatly unhinged, for all that.
Claverton, on the other hand, was untroubled by any misgiving whatever.
Stay. What is that black object crouching high up on the cliff? It is
alive, for it might have been seen to move had the trio beneath been
less intent upon their errand of blood. Only a stray baboon wandering
among the ledges of the rocks.
"Now," said McShane, withdrawing to a safe distance. "Be careful not to
fire till I count three. Every shot must be signalled. Now, are you
ready?"
No cloud veiled the unbroken calm of the starry heavens. The silver
moon looked silently down, flooding hill and dale in her pale, clear
light, shining like chastened noontide upon that sequestered hollow and
the strip of open glade in the centre, where stood two men pointing
their weapons at each other's hearts. It will soon shine upon a ghastly
stream of ebbing life-blood, crimsoning out upon the dewy turf. One of
those two men must die here. Which will it be?
"One--Two--Three!"
A double report, but sounding like a single one, so simultaneous is the
effect. A dull, thundrous echo rolls sullenly along the face of the
overhanging cliff. The smoke lifts slowly, and there is a sickly,
sulphurous smell mingling with the cool, fresh air. Both men are
standing motionless, waiting for the second signal. As yet both are
unhurt; Truscott heard his adversary's ball whiz very close past his
right ear, but his own shot was wider.
Again the signal is given. This time it is Truscott's left ear which
feels the close proximity of the lead; and but for the fact of his own
bullet ploughing up the ground some forty yards off, he might as well
have fired with blank cartridge for all the apparent effect. His wrath
is terrible, and blazes forth in his livid, distorted countenance and
staring eyes. He can see that the other is a dead shot, and is, as yet,
merely playing with him. And mingling with his wrath is a chilling
misgiving; and as he stands fronting his opponent's pitiless eyes, he is
almost unnerved. Fury, hate, and even despair, are stamped upon his
features; the perspiration lies in beads upon his forehead, for he feels
that opposite to him stands his executioner. Claverton, on the other
hand, is dangerously cool, and his eyes gleam with a deadly purpose. It
is a scene of horror, this drama being enacted in the moonlit glade.
The dark object overhead has disappeared from the cliff.
"Be jabers, but ye'd better knock off now," exclaims the Irishman, in
grave, serious tones. "The shots make the very divil of a row, echoing
among the rocks. We shall have a patrol down on us directly, or a host
of niggurs, an' I don't know which'd be the worst."
"Has he had enough?" asks Claverton, in a cold, contemptuous tone,
turning his head slightly towards the speaker.
An imprecation is the only reply the other vouchsafes, and again they
exchange shots. Truscott, who is quite off his head, blinded by his
helpless rage, blazes away wildly. But he feels his adversary's ball
graze his right ear, exactly as the first had done, and his adversary's
face wears a cold, sinister smile.
Three shots have been fired. The next three will be at a shorter range.
"Haven't you two fellows peppered each other enough?" asks McShane.
"Well, if ye will go on ye must," he adds, receiving no reply. "It's at
twenty yards now."
The distance is measured, and again the two men stand facing each other.
Claverton, watching his enemy's features, can see them working
strangely in the moonlight, and knows that he would give all he has in
the world to be safe out of it. In other words, he detects unmistakable
signs of fear; but it does not move him, his determination is fixed. He
will shoot his adversary dead. He has, as Truscott rightly conjectured,
been playing with him hitherto, and also with the desire to allow him
every chance, but the next shot shall tell. He will have no mercy on
this double-dyed traitor, who has sneaked in treacherously in his
absence, and placed a barrier between him and his love.
No, he will not spare him. This time he will shoot him dead; and
Truscott reads his doom in the other's eyes, as once more, with the
distance diminished between them, they stand awaiting the signal.
"One--T--!"
A terrific crash bursts from the brow of the overhanging height, and
Truscott, with a spasmodic leap, falls backward, as the red jets of
flame issue forth, to the number of a score, from the rifles of the
concealed savages. Claverton feels a hard, numbing knock on the left
shoulder, as he and the doctor rush to the side of the fallen man.
"Truscott, man, where are you hit?" is the letter's hurried inquiry; but
as he lifts the other's head he is answered, for it lies a dead weight
in his hand. A dark stain is oozing forth upon the moonlit sward,
welling from a great jagged wound. The "pot-leg" has gone clean through
Truscott's heart; and now, as McShane lays down his head, the glazed
eyes are turned upwards to the sky, and the swarthy face is livid with
the dews of death.
"He's dead as a door-nail, bedad," said the doctor. "And it's ourselves
that'd better be lavin', and that mighty quick, or we'll get plugged,
too." Even while he spoke the leaden messengers were whizzing about
them with a vicious "pit--pit!"
Truscott, as he had said, was dead as a door-nail, and it was clearly
useless to remain. And now came in their foresight in keeping their
horses close at hand. Loosening the terrified animals, which were
snorting and tagging wildly at their bridles, they mounted and dashed
off at a gallop just as a number of dark forms issued swiftly and
stealthily from the bush to cut off their retreat, while the enemy on
the cliff kept up a continuous fire. Two or three assegais were thrown
at them; and then the Kafirs, who could now be descried pouring down the
rocks in swarms, seeing that they were well mounted, and the ground
ahead was fairly clear, relinquished the pursuit.
"An' didn't I tell ye that we should have the niggurs down upon us?"
cried McShane, turning in his saddle to look back at the peril they had
so narrowly escaped. "That poor divil's lost his number anyhow, and
it's glory be to the blessed saints that we're not lyin' alongside of
him."
"I rather think I'm hit, too. My arm feels as if it was going to drop
off," said Claverton, quietly. But he was deadly pale.
"Hit! are ye?" rejoined McShane, with an anxious glance at him. "Well,
hold up till we get back to camp. It may not be very bad after all. Is
it in the shoulder?"
"Yes, I think it's only a spent ball. The bone isn't touched."
"Faith, and ye'd better have knocked off and come away when I first
spoke. That poor divil would be alive and well now."
Claverton turned to him in amazement.
"My dear McShane, what _do_ you suppose I came out here for to-night?"
he said, with a sinister laugh. "Not to play, did you?"
"Well, it's lucky Jack Kafir took the throuble off your hands, me boy,
or it's on your way to the Orange River ye'd have to be now, and meself,
too, likely enough. As it is it'll be murdherin' awkward."
"Why?"
"Well, what possesses three fellows to go riding off into the _veldt_ at
night--eh? An' then when the row ye had this morning comes to lake out,
sure won't they be puttin' two and two together, anyway?"
"Nothing can be proved, and if it could, I don't care. Who's to prove
that there was any exchange of shots, at all; and there's no mistake
about that pot-leg that rid the earth of the greatest blackguard it ever
held being _not_ a revolver ballet," replied Claverton, in a hard,
pitiless tone.
"There's a good deal in that," assented the other.
It was nearly midnight when they reached the camp, and the news spread
like wildfire that Truscott had been shot by the Kafirs, the other two
barely escaping; and before long some one appended the rider that
Claverton was mortally wounded in trying to rescue him, which report
reaching that worthy's ears, he received it with a sardonic grin, and
said nothing. And by a curious piece of luck, the row between the two
had not got wind, the spectators of it, terrible gossips by nature,
fearing consequences to themselves should it become known that they had
stood calmly looking on while their officer got a thrashing, deemed it
wise to hold their peace.
"Half an inch more, me boy, and ye'd likely as not have lost an arm,"
said McShane, as he bound up a jagged and furrowed wound just below
Claverton's shoulder. "It's nothing to spake of now, as long as ye keep
quiet; but if ye don't thur'll be the divil to pay."
The operation finished the patient turned in, and slept a heavy,
dreamless sleep for thirteen hours.
In the morning a party was despatched to bring in Truscott's body. It
told its own tale; for in addition to being horribly cut about, after
the time-honoured custom of the noble savage, the wound which had caused
his death gaped wide and ghastly, bearing witness, as his late enemy had
said, that it had been inflicted by no revolver bullet, even if the bit
of pot-leg, which resembled the slug from an elephant gnu, had not been
found. Everything belonging to the unfortunate man had been carried
off--his horse, arms, and ammunition, even most of his clothing--indeed,
when the expedition saw the spoors of the Kafirs all about the spot, the
only wonder existing in their minds was that the other two had managed
to escape. So far good; and it was not until long after that the
faintest rumour of a duel having taken place began to leak out.
Meanwhile, we will return to another personage whom we have lost sight
of for a space, our friend Sharkey, to wit, who, almost immediately upon
Claverton's return to camp, had been reported missing, the general
impression being that he had deserted, and, as men could not be spared
just then, no search was made for him. But for once that interesting
individual had been maligned. It happened that morning that the
attention of a patrol returning to camp was attracted by the sight of a
cloud of _aasvogels_ hovering above the bush. More of the great carrion
birds rose, flapping their huge white pinions and soaring leisurely
away, and then the reason of the gathering was made plain. There, in
the long grass, half devoured by these hideous scavengers, lay the
remains of the missing man, Vargas Smith, _alias_ Sharkey, _soi-disant_
Cuban gentleman, late corporal in Truscott's Levy. Though the body was
horribly torn, yet it was evident that the man had met his death from a
couple of assegai wounds, one of which must have pierced his heart.
And this is how it came about. When Xuvani, having safely conducted his
charge within the lines of the latter's own people--a service which the
people aforesaid repaid by opening fire upon both of them, as we have
seen--he disappeared; that is to say, he dodged down behind the bushes,
and half running, half crawling, rapidly made good his retreat. And he
would have made it good, but for the fact that one man had caught sight
of his manoeuvres and was determined he should not. This was our friend
Sharkey, who was on the extreme outskirts of the column, and who,
anxious to have the fun all to himself, started off at a run to take up
a position in a certain narrow place through which he judged--and judged
rightly--that the Kafir would be almost certain to pass; when he could
shoot him at his leisure.
But alas for the uncertainty of human calculations. The ex-cattle-herd
of Seringa Vale was far too old a bird to be caught in any such trap as
this--moreover, he had obtained just one glimpse of his enemy running
through the bush to waylay him, and his eyes glared as he broke into a
short, silent laugh of contempt. Meanwhile, Sharkey, having ensconced
himself in a snug corner, waited and listened, gun in hand, ready to
give his quarry the contents of a heavy charge of buckshot in the back
as he ran past. But somehow the said quarry didn't appear, and the
watcher began to grow uneasy. Slowly and cautiously he put out his
head. Then, immediately above him, sounded a fiendish chuckle which
curdled his blood, and before he had time to turn, much less bring his
gun to bear, the Kafir sprang upon him like a tiger-cat and, quick as
lightning, with two strokes of his powerful arm stabbed him twice
through the heart. The mulatto fell, stone dead, with scarce a groan,
and Xuvani, wrenching off his ammunition-belt and picking up his gun,
which lay in the grass, trotted away with a sardonic grin upon his
rugged features. He had done a first-rate stroke of business; slain a
foe, and possessed himself of a fairly good fire-arm and some
ammunition--the acme of a Kafir's desire.
Thus by an unaccountable turn in the wheel of Fate, the two conspirators
met their deaths on the same day; and both, moreover, through the
indirect agency of the very man against whose life they had conspired.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Claverton opened his eyes on awaking from his heavy sleep, they met
those of George Payne, who was sitting opposite him, watching him
intently.
"Hallo, George! What brings you up here? Oh-h!"
For he had forgotten his wounded shoulder, and, starting up suddenly on
that elbow, an agonised groan was the result.
"To look after you--and you seem rather to want it," replied the other,
gravely.
Claverton lay back for a minute with closed eyes, and in racking pain;
for he was more seriously hurt than the good-natured doctor would have
had him believe. No compunction entered his mind as his thoughts
recurred to the affair of last night. Why should it? he reasoned. They
had met in fair fight, and he had certainly given the other every
chance. If any one tried to rob him of his life, all the world would
hold him justified in defending it to the uttermost. This man had tried
to rob him of what he valued ten times more than his life, so he had
been more than justified in defending that to the uttermost. And the
agglomeration of frightful perils through which he had just passed, were
indirectly owing to this man's agency. Moreover, when all was said and
done, _he_ had not shot him. He had intended to, certainly, but the
Kafirs had saved him the trouble and the risk by shooting him instead,
by shooting them both, in fact; for all the world like in the case of
two small boys indulging in fisticuffs, and a fond parent or stern
preceptor staying hostilities by impartially cuffing the pair of them.
And, when viewed in this light, the affair struck him as so comical,
that he burst into a laugh.
There was a queer look in Payne's eyes as he rose, and, going outside,
intently studied the weather for a moment, apparently, that is, for, in
reality, he wanted to make sure of not being heard--and then returned.
"How did the affair go off?" he asked, shortly.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Yes. That Irish fellow told me a yarn about your being attacked; but
it won't wash, you know," and he winked.
"Fact--upon my oath!"
"And you didn't do for friend R.T.?"
"Devil a bit! I meant to; but the niggers were too sharp for us. They
winged me into the bargain, as you see."
"Then _he_ didn't pink you?"
"Confound it, no. The niggers did. It's about the queerest thing, I
suppose, that ever happened."
"It is," assented Payne, lighting his pipe.
Claverton could see that the other only half believed him, but he didn't
care.
Payne smoked on in silence for a few moments. He appeared to be
intently contemplating a chip of wood which lay on the floor, and which
he was poking at with a riding-crop. At length he said:
"Have you any idea what brought me here?"
"H'm. A horse, most probably."
"You're a sharp fellow, Arthur Claverton," said Payne, deliberately.
"Now don't you go and act like a fool. Mark my words. Unless you want
to be the death of a certain young lady--I mean it, mind," and his voice
sank to a great seriousness, "for that cursed telegram was nearly the
death of her--the sooner you get on a horse and go and exhibit your
ornamental visage in my town establishment, the better. Now don't be a
fool--d'you hear?"
The advice seemed needed, for at that moment Claverton gained at a bound
the door of the tent, where he stood bellowing for Sam.
"Blazes! I'm forgetting. He isn't here. What can we do?" he said,
helplessly.
"But he is here," was the imperturbable reply, and simultaneously that
faithful servitor entered, grinning with delight at seeing his master
again, and firing off a tremendous congratulation in the Zulu tongue.
His master cut him ruthlessly short, however.
"Sam, take that bit of paper," tossing him a fragment, on which he had
hastily pencilled a few words, "and ride as if the devil were chevvying
you, till you pull up at the telegraph office in `King.' Now off you
go. The road's quite safe, isn't it? Can't help it if it isn't. Take
my horse and start at once, and wait there till I join you."
"Yeh bo, 'Nkos!" said the obedient Sam. His heart was in his errand,
for he well knew the destination of the message he was to send.