At the hour of noon the straggling main street of Vryburg, the village
capital of British Bechuanaland, lay bare and shadeless beneath the
merciless glare of a February sun. The few straggling saplings in front
of the corrugated-iron shanty known as the Criterion Hotel, and a
forlorn blue gum-tree here and there in other parts of the place, served
but to accentuate the utter nakedness and lack of shade.
Notwithstanding the sun's fierce assault, the air was crisp and nimble,
for the plains here lie high--nearly four thousand feet above sea-level.
There had been recent rain, and the sea of grass stretching everywhere
beyond the village had now assumed a garb of fresh green in lieu of the
wearisome pall of pale yellow which for months had masked the red soil.
Two Boer horses stood with drooping heads tarrying patiently for their
masters, now shopping inside a store on either side of the broad street;
and a span of oxen lying and standing on the left hand, waiting for a
load to the wagon behind them, were the only indications of life in the
centre of the Bechuanaland capital. Beyond and behind these, however,
north and south, the two hotels--canteens one might rather call them--at
either end of the street showed, by noisy laughter and a gentle flow of
humanity, that there the place was alive, and, as was its wont,
cheerful.
The click of billiard balls from either inn gave further tone to the
somewhat scant air of civilisation.
Lounging in a corner of the Criterion bar were two men equipped in veldt
dress of cord breeches and coats, pigskin gaiters, brown boots, spurs,
flannel shirts, and broad-brimmed felt hats. They were youngish men--
both on the better side of thirty--and looked bronzed, full of health,
and hard as nails. Both had come out to the country with Methuen's
Horse, and, after serving in Warren's expedition, had drifted into the
Bechuanaland Border Police, from which they had some time since retired.
The elder, darker and taller, Hume Wheler, after a fairly successful
public school and university career, and a short and briefless period at
the Bar, had found the active and open-air life of the South African
interior far more to his liking than two years of weary expectancy in
gloomy chambers. In reality a man of action, the languid and somewhat
cynical air which he affected in times of quiet greatly belied him. His
friend, Joe Granton, shorter and more strongly knit than his fellow,
wore habitually a far more cheerful aspect. His broad, bright
countenance, clear blue eyes, fair hair and moustache, and transparent
openness, combined to render him quickly welcome wherever he appeared.
Joe had migrated to South Africa after five years' experience of a City
office. London-bred though he was, his yearnings were irresistibly
athletic; and, after mastering the early troubles of horsemanship, he
had settled down to veldt life, with its roughs and tumbles, with a zest
that never faded.
These two men had been fast friends for years, and were now engaged in
an enterprise which, although nominally enwrapped in some air of
mystery, was a pretty open secret in Vryburg. The rage for
concession-hunting was just now in full blast throughout South Africa.
The two comrades, in partnership with two or three other
Bechuanalanders, were just on the eve of an expedition into the far
recesses of the Kalahari Desert, with the object of securing a
concession from a native chief over a vast tract of country in that
waterless and unknown wilderness.
As the two adventurers smoked their pipes and now and again refreshed
themselves from long tumblers of whisky and soda, their eyes wandered
with some impatience towards the open doorway. Their expectancy was at
length rewarded. A short, strong figure of a man, middle-aged,
brown-bearded, grey-eyed, appeared in the sun blaze outside, and entered
the cool shade of the canteen. Tom Lane, the third and most important
member of the expedition, was a well-known character in the far
interior. Hunter, trader, cattle-dealer, border-fighter, Tom's
experience of the country was unique. Tough as steel, a wonderful
veldt-man, none knew the dim and untravelled recesses of the Kalahari as
did he. He had penetrated twice before to the kraal of Tapinyani, the
Bakalahari chief whose concession they were now hoping to obtain, and
the prime weight and direction of the trek thus fell naturally upon his
broad and reliable shoulders.
"Well, Tom!" exclaimed Hume Wheler, waking a little from his languor,
"here you are at last. Have you fixed up the drivers and men? What'll
you drink--whisky and soda, or beer?"
"Thanks! I'll have a bottle of beer," responded Lane cheerfully.
"Well, I've had a lot of trouble, but I've got all the `boys' in, and
we'll start to-night about twelve, as soon as the moon's up. I see
you've got all your kits on the wagon, and the stores in. The last of
the mealies for the nags came down just as I left Klaas will see them
stowed. The tent I've fastened on to the buck-rail. By the bye,
Manning wants us all to sup at his house this evening before saying
good-bye. He's got the concession papers fixed up by the lawyers for
Tapinyani to sign, if the old buster _will_ sign; and Miss Manning
particularly hopes you'll both come."
"That's all right, Tom," rejoined Joe Granton. "We'll turn up at seven
o'clock. Miss Manning said something about it yesterday when I met her.
I've got to write some letters after lunch; but you fellows will find
me, if you want me, in my bedroom all the afternoon. Well, here's
success to the Tapinyani concession! Santeit! and another thousand a
year to us all!"
The three men smiled mutually, clinked their glasses, and drank deep
draughts to their undertaking.
That evening the three were gathered at the house of Mr Manning,
another member of the concession syndicate, who lived at the top of the
town. It was nearly ten o'clock, the last of the business had been
discussed, the concession documents handed over, and Kate Manning, the
only daughter of the house, was singing some English songs. Now Kate
was a very charming, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, who, although she
lived with her father in this remote frontier town, had been educated in
Europe, had a very charming manner, and was in no mind to suffer herself
to rust dully through existence like some Boer _meisje_. She took the
keenest interest in the expedition, and had known the active members of
it for some years past--since she was a child, in fact. There was a
friendly rivalry between Wheler and Granton in securing her commands and
favours; but hitherto the girl, though she liked these two pleasant,
well-set-up fellows well enough, had shown no decided preference for
either. Even within the secret recesses of her own heart the balance
stood very evenly. Hume Wheler was handsome, refined, a capital talker;
Joe Granton's perennial cheerfulness and unselfish and transparent
character counted for much.
The dark-eyed girl, as she finished her song, suddenly turned round upon
her audience, and exclaimed, "Oh! before you gentlemen start, there's
one little commission I had almost forgotten. You know, Mr Wheler, you
brought some wildebeests' tails down from 'Mangwato when you were last
up-country. Well, they make excellent fly-whisks; but I want something
even bigger. There are plenty of giraffe where you're going, I hear. I
want, above all things, a big bull giraffe's tail. It will make a
splendid whisk for Piet when he stands behind the chairs at dinner in
hot weather. Now, Mr Granton, now, Mr Wheler, whichever of you first
captures and brings me home that treasure shall--shall earn my undying
gratitude."
"By all means, Miss Kate," answered Wheler gaily. "I haven't yet shot a
`camel'--never had the luck to come across one. But you may consider
the tail yours; it shall be laid gratefully at your feet."
"Yes," chimed in Joe Granton, in a much more serious manner. "You shall
have the tail, if I have to ride a `camel' right through to Damaraland
to secure it."
"Don't you trust to Joe," laughingly interrupted Wheler; "he can't hit a
haystack, much less a `camel' going full split. _I'll_ bring in the
tail, and secure that inestimable treasure, Miss Manning's undying
gratitude."
"I'm not sure that I shall not have to trust to my old friend Mr Lane,
after all," returned the handsome girl merrily. "I know _he_ can kill
`camel,' at any rate. However, you have my best wishes in your first
hunt. And, Mr Granton, please don't forget the blue jay feathers [the
`roller' is usually called `blue jay' by colonists]. I want them
badly."
The conversation now took another turn.
"I forgot to tell you, Tom," said Mr Manning, addressing Lane,
"Puff-adder Brown's about again. What's he up to just now, think you?
No good, I'll bet. Kate was out for a ride in the veldt this morning
before breakfast, and met him as she came home by the Mafeking Road.
The infernal rascal had the impudence to speak to her too, and ask after
me in a sneering way. He owes me one over that cattle-running job five
years ago, when I wiped his eye, and saved old Van Zyl's oxen for him."
"Puff-adder Brown, eh!" answered Tom Lane, with a lift of the eyebrows.
"Where can he have sprang from, and what's he after? I wonder he has
the cheek to show his face in Vryburg. I thought he was away in
Waterberg somewhere."
"I can enlighten you," broke in Joe Granton. "I heard this afternoon.
Puff-adder Brown has an extra light wagon outspanned with fourteen good
oxen at Jackal's Pan. He rode into the town late last night to see a
pal, and there's something or other in the wind. What that is, I don't
know. It can't be cattle-lifting nowadays; those Stellaland luxuries
are over. Perhaps it's a new trading trip. Waterberg's played out, I
fancy, and the Dutchmen don't much fancy Puff-adder."
Puff-adder Brown, it may be remarked, was a notorious border character,
who, as trader, cattle-stealer, horse-lifter, freebooter, and general
ruffian, was well-known. In the Bechuana troubles some years before the
man had served as volunteer alternately on either side, sometimes
throwing in his lot with the Dutch, at others siding with the natives.
In either case, cattle and land plunder had been his prime object. In
the quieter times following the British occupation he seldom showed much
in Vryburg or Mafeking, judging rightly that his presence was
objectionable to most decent men. The man was strong and unscrupulous,
a bully, and violent where he dared; and his nickname, "Puff-adder," had
been bestowed upon him from a curious swelling of the neck observable in
him in moments of anger.
In half an hour more the last good-byes were said, the farewell
stirrup-cups partaken of; the horses were at the door. The three
adventurers rode forth into the broad moonlight, and were soon at the
outspan, where their wagon stood ready. A little later the oxen were in
their yokes, and the trek began.
For the next month the expedition moved steadily north-west into the
Kalahari, trekking with infinite toil from one scant pit of water to
another. During the first week, small temporary pans of water left by
the rains had saved a good deal of hardship; but after that time it was
only with the greatest difficulty that a sufficient supply for the oxen
and horses could be hit upon in each three or four days of travel. The
country, too, was not an easy one. Sometimes they laboured amid heavy
calcareous sand, through thick forests of mopani, where the axe had to
be constantly at work to make a passage. At others thorny bush
obstinately barred the way. Anon they moved across great dazzling
plains of long grass, now turning once more to a blinding yellow beneath
the too ardent sun. The pleasant groves of dark-green giraffe-acacia,
masking a reddish, sandy soil, offered welcome relief now and again; but
even here a road had sometimes to be cut, and the toil was long and
exhausting.
One evening, just at sundown, at the end of a month, the wagon reached
the remains of a shallow pool of rain-water, much fouled by game, and
rapidly vanishing by evaporation. The oxen had trekked almost
incessantly for two days and nights, and were gaunt and wild with
thirst. The noisome mixture of mud and water stank abominably, but the
two barrels were empty, and had to be recruited against the journey
ahead of them. These filled, the oxen and horses were allowed to drink
moderately, leaving a bare supply for the morning before they should
move forward again.
Hume Wheler and Joe Granton had come in with the wagon. Lane had ridden
forward forty-eight hours since with a Bushman picked up at the last
water, with the object of finding a desert fountain far distant in the
wilderness, where the next supply of water was to be obtained. Upon the
strength of this fountain hinged the safety of the expedition in the
last trek of nearly a week--waterless except for this supply--before
Tapinyani's kraal should be reached.
After a poor supper of tough, tinned "bully beef"--they had had no time
to shoot game--and a mere sip at the poisonous and well-nigh undrinkable
coffee, brewed from the foul water of the pool, Hume Wheler lay by the
fire smoking in moody contemplation. The day had been desperately hot,
and the work very hard, and even now, as night with her train of stars
stepped forth upon the heaven, the air was close and still. Joe Granton
had climbed up to the wagon for more tobacco. His cheerful nature was
little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and
now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance passed through his
brain, and in a mellow voice he sang:--
"How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well."
As the notes died slowly away upon the still air, Wheler looked up from
the fire, and said in a sharp voice, "What in God's name, Joe, possesses
you to sing about moss-grown wells and cool English water, and that sort
of thing? It's bad enough to be enduring the tortures of the damned in
this cursed desert, with a thirst on one big enough to drain Windermere,
without being reminded of such things. Don't, old man; don't!"
"All right, old chap," cheerily answered Granton. "I'll drop the
`Moss-covered Bucket' and its unpleasant suggestions. I'll get out my
banjo and come down." Extricating the banjo, he descended, and sat at
his friend's side. They sat smoking by the firelight, exchanging but
few words, while Joe twanged softly at his strings.
In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other
fire, where the native servants sat.
"I tink, Sieur," he said, "that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear
something just now."
Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane's whistle was heard, and,
directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly
foundered horse into the strong firelight.
After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some
water. "He's about cooked, poor beast," he said. "I don't think he'd
have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?"
They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.
"That's pretty bad," he remarked; "but it might be worse. I'll have
another. I've touched no drink for eighteen hours, and it was blazing
hot to-day. I've got bad news, boys, and I'm afraid we're in a tight
place."
"Why, what devil's hole are we in now?" queried Wheler. "I thought we
were about through the last of our troubles."
"I'm afraid not, Hume," replied Lane. "That infernal scoundrel
Puff-adder Brown has been ahead of us. Somehow I half suspected some
game of the kind. I got it all from a Bakalahari near the water in
front. Brown, it seems, with his light wagon, trekked across from Kanya
by way of Lubli Pits, and has just pipped us. To make matters secure,
he has poisoned the water-pit I've just come from with euphorbia
branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak. We were just going to
drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here--a decent
Masarwa he is, too--stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I
discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had
poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker's
curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The
water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot
of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one. However, we'll
be even with him yet. He's not far in front, and we may spoil his
little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship."
By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled.
Nearly six days of absolutely waterless travel, if the wagons could by
any possibility be dragged, lay between the trekkers and Tapinyani's
kraal. No oxen could pull the wagon waterless over such a journey. It
was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning,
to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing
in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left
a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and
drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani's. Without the
encumbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be
accomplished in two days, or rather less. Watered, rested, and
refreshed at Tapinyani's kraal, the oxen could then be driven back to
fetch in the wagon. This part of the undertaking was to be entrusted to
Stephan, the Hottentot driver. Stephan had been picked for the
expedition as a thoroughly reliable native, and having traversed the
Kalahari before, he would be equal to the emergency. Meanwhile, the
three white men, riding their freshest horses, and leading their spare
ones, were to push forward, after watering the nags at earliest dawn, in
the confident hope of reaching Tapinyani's kraal in a forced march of
thirty-six hours.
At four o'clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire
council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered
horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani's kraal, that singular native
village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense
waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew the place, and they passed
straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular,
grass-thatched huts, until they reached the large _kotla_, or enclosure,
in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani's own residence stood.
Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they passed by an open
entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined
in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met
their gaze.
Just in front of the chief's hut was gathered a collection of natives,
some nearly naked--save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari
folk--others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin--
pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals. In the centre of his
headmen and councillors--for such they were--seated on a low wagon-chair
of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself,
a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross
of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large
foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the
tall white man standing at his side. This white man, a huge,
broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure,
notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than
Puff-adder Brown himself. Bulking in size and stature far above the
slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his
flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the
blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by
a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple assemblage
of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his
wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.
"By George! we're just in time," said Lane, as he dismounted with
alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head.
"Come on, you fellows!"
His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second
or two they were marching side by side with Lane across the _kotla_ to
Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of
emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust. They were quickly
across the forty paces of red sand, and now stood before the astonished
group.
"Greeting! Tapinyani," said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as
he moved up near to him. "I hope all is well with you and your people.
What do you do here with this man," indicating Brown, "and what is the
paper you have in your hands?"
The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which
the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.
"How much land?" asked Lane.
"Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats," replied the
chief.
"And how much are you to receive for this?"
"Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy," was the answer. "I am glad you
have come," pursued Tapinyani; "I know you well, and you can advise me
in this matter."
He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest
on Puff-adder Brown's part, ran his eye rapidly over the document.
"Just as I thought," remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani. "By this
paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your
country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man.
The thing's an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do
with it." He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing
round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed
in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.
Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute.
He had not expected this sudden appearance after the precautions he had
taken, especially at the poisoned pool. But while Lane and the chief
had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his
face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge
neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened
Puff-adder Brown.
"Wait a bit, chief," he blurted out in the native tongue. "These men
are liars, every one of them. Don't believe them, the swines! There is
nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a
concession of land themselves."
"Tapinyani," rejoined Lane, "let me tell you something more about this
man. He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the
chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot
of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not
interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with
that paper."
Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but
Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his
hand.
"I will not sign the paper to-day," said the chief. "I will think the
matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again
to-morrow."
Puff-adder Brown's face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans
were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if
seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would
have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his
countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the
instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy
back-handed blow in the mouth.
But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most
doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn.
Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a
horse, and in hard condition. During his five years' career in the City
he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight
amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now,
with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood
trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader.
Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe's vicious doubled fist
upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling
before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each
other and sparred for an opening.
"Keep back! keep back!" cried Lane.
The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a
wide circle, and the battle began.
Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather
fancied himself in this affair of fists. He was big and bulky, and
three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a
sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock
out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.
He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out
heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying,
at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for
his adversary. Time after time he planted his blows with those ominous
dull thuds upon the trader's fleshy face; now and again he drove into
the big man's ribs with strokes that made him wince again. In the
second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm
drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little
sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder's infuriated
hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was
a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily
visited; bumps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance;
his wind was going.
"Now, old chap," whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short
pause for breath by the combatants, "you've done magnificently. You've
got him on toast! Go in and win. It's all up with the Puff-adder!"
There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and
wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed.
In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some
telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent's face and about his
ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of
what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his
head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of
battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and
hopelessly defeated.
Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of
which they had never before seen. Their "ughs!" and ejaculations
indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed
rather pleased than otherwise. For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a
fighting man himself--with his native weapons. Under Lane's directions
Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with
cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong
applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered
senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out
of the place by next day. He told him that after the vile poisoning
incident at the fountain--an attempt which might very well have murdered
a whole expedition--any return to British Bechuanaland would result in
his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act
of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly
repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart. During the night the
discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a
part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels,
a career is still open.
During the next few days the wagon and oxen were got safely to the town,
and some progress was made in preliminary negotiations for a concession
to Lane and his party. Finally, at the close of a week, after the
endless discussion and argument so dear to the native African, Tapinyani
set his royal mark, duly attested and approved by the headmen and elders
of his tribe, to a grant of 300,000 acres of pastoral land--part of that
huge and unexplored tract of country over which he hunted and nominally
held sway. The considerations for this grant were a yearly payment of
100 pounds, a dozen Martini-Henry rifles with suitable ammunition, a
"salted" horse worth 90 pounds, six bottles of French brandy, a suit of
store clothes, a case of Eau de Cologne, and a quantity of beads and
trinkets. These terms may, to the uninitiated mind, seem not highly
advantageous to the native side; yet, measured by the considerations in
other and far vaster South African concessions in recent years, and
remembering that the land granted was at present waterless, remote, and
almost totally unexplored, they were fair and equitable.
This business settled, Tapinyani now turned his thoughts to the trial of
his new horse and rifles. He had once possessed an old broken-down nag,
bought from a swindling Namaqua Hottentot, and he knew a little of guns
and gunnery. But he was unskilled in the use of either. His people
badly wanted giraffe hides for making sandals and for barter; the
animals were plentiful in the open forests a day or two north of the
town; they must have a big hunt forthwith.
Accordingly, the horses having, meanwhile, under the influence of Kaffir
corn, plenty of water, and a good rest, recovered some of their lost
condition, a day or two later the hunting party sallied forth. Keen
Masarwa Bushmen, half famished and dying for a gorge of flesh, trotted
before the horsemen as spoorers; while well in the rear a cloud of
Tapinyani's people hovered in the like hope of meat and hides. For a
whole day the party rode northward into the desert; they found no
giraffe, but spoor was plentiful, and they camped by a tiny limestone
fountain with high hopes for the morrow. At earliest streak of dawn
they were up and preparing for the chase. Tapinyani was stiff and sore
from unaccustomed horse exercise, yet he had plenty of pluck, and, clad
in his canary-yellow, brand-new, store suit of cords, climbed gaily to
the saddle.
In an hour they were on fresh spoor of "camel"; a troop had fed quite
recently through the giraffe-acacia groves; and the whispering Bushmen
began to run hot upon the trail. Just as the great red disk of sun shot
up clear above the rim of earth, they emerged upon a broad expanse of
plain, yellow with long waving grass. Save for an odd camel-thorn tree
here and there, it was open for some three miles, until checked again by
a dark-green belt of forest. Half a mile away in their front, slouching
leisurely across the flat with giant strides, moved a troop of nine tall
giraffe--a huge dark-coloured old bull, towering above the rest, four or
five big cows, and some two-year-old calves. Well might the hearts of
the two younger Englishmen beat faster, and their palates grow dry and
parched. Neither had seen giraffes in the wild state before, and here
at last was a towering old bull, whose tail, if it could but be secured,
would amply satisfy Kate Manning's commands. Hume Wheler meant killing
that giraffe, more, probably, from a feeling of natural rivalry than
anything else. Joe Granton had at heart a much deeper interest in the
chase. He was in truth in very serious earnest about Kate Manning; the
coveted trophy might mean all the world for him.
The four men set their horses going at a sharp gallop, and had run two
hundred yards before the tall game had spied them. Here, unluckily,
Tapinyani's horse put its foot in a hole, came down with a crash, and
sent its rider flying yards upon the veldt. His loaded rifle, carried,
native fashion, at full cock, exploded, and the startled giraffes
glancing round saw danger, and instantly broke into their ludicrous
rolling gallop. Up and down their long necks flailed the air, in
strange machine-like unison with their gait; quickly they were in full
flight, going great guns for the shelter of the forest ahead of them.
Now the three Englishmen rammed in spurs, set their teeth, and raced
their nags at their hardest. To kill "camel" there is only one method.
You must run up to them (if you can) at top speed in the first two or
three miles of chase, else they will outstay you and escape. Force the
giraffe beyond his pace, and he is yours.
But in this instance the dappled giants had too long a start. The
ponies were not at their best, and the forest sanctuary lay now only two
miles beyond the quarry. Ride as they would, the hunters could not make
up their lee-way in the distance. Once in the woodlands the giraffes
would have much the best of it. The two clouds of dust raised by
pursued and pursuers rose thick upon the clear morning air, and steadily
neared the forest fringe. Now the giraffe are only two hundred yards
from their sanctuary, the lighter cows, running ahead, rather less. The
horsemen are still nearly three hundred yards in rear of the nearest of
the troop. "Jump off, lads, and shoot!" roars Tom Lane, as he reins up
his nag suddenly, springs off, and puts up his rifle. The other two men
instantly follow his example. Two barrels are fired by Lane, but the
distance is great, that desperate gallop has made him shaky, and his
bullets go wide.
Hume Wheler, quicker down from his horse than his friend, fires next at
the old bull, lagging last; he, too, misses clean, and shoves another
cartridge into his single sporting Martini. But now even the old bull
is close upon the forest, into whose depths the rest of the troop are
disappearing, and he, too, is within easy hail of safety. Before Hume
can fire again, Joe Granton has put up his sight for 350 yards and aimed
full; he draws a deep breath, pulls trigger, and in the next instant the
great dark chestnut bull falls prone to the earth, and lies there very
still. Never again shall he stalk the pleasant Kalahari forests never
again stretch upward that slender neck to pluck the young acacia
leafage!
"My God, Joe! you've killed him," gasped Hume Wheler.
"Bravo!" chimed in Tom Lane, wiping his brow; "whether you fluked him or
not, it was a wonderful shot. You've got Kate Manning's tail right
enough."
Now Joe, it must be frankly admitted, was not a good shot; either of his
friends could give him points in the ordinary way. Here was an
extraordinary stroke of luck! Speechless with delight, flushed of face,
and streaming with sweat, his eyes still fixed upon the piece of grass
where the bull had gone down, he mounted his horse and galloped up. The
others followed in more leisurely fashion. Joe was quickly by the side
of the great dappled giraffe. Taking off and waving his hat, he turned
his face to his friends and gave a loud hurrah. Then, first whipping
out his hunting-knife and cutting off the long tail by the root, he sat
himself down upon the dead beast's shoulder to await their coming. At
that instant a strange resurrection happened. Whether roused to life
again by the sharp severing of its tail, or by a last desperate stirring
of nature, the giraffe--not yet dead after all--rose suddenly from its
prone position, and, with Joe clinging in utter bewilderment to its long
neck, staggered to its stilt-like legs. For another instant the great
creature beat the air in its real death-agony, staggered, staggered
again, and then, with a crash that shook the earth, fell truly dead. In
that terrible fall Joe Granton was hurled upon his head, and, as his
comrades rode anxiously up, lay there apparently as void of life as his
gigantic quarry. In his hand he still clutched desperately the tail
upon which he had so firmly set his mind.
From the shock of that fall Joe Granton sustained heavy concussion of
the brain, and had to be carried with much care and difficulty back to
Tapinyani's town. Hume Wheler, with infinite solicitude and care,
superintended this operation, while Lane stayed out another two days in
the veldt and shot three giraffe for the chief and his people. Hume
Wheler himself had the satisfaction of bringing down his first and a
good many more "camels" at a subsequent period.
A fortnight's careful nursing at Tapinyani's restored Joe Granton to
something like his normal health. In due time the expedition returned,
after a tedious and even dangerous trek, to Vryburg.
Whether it was, in truth, the coveted giraffe's tail that settled the
business; whether it was the dangerous accident Joe had suffered in her
behalf; or whether Kate Manning had not for some time before had a
tender corner in her heart for Joe Granton, is scarcely of consequence.
Certain it is that, not long after the presentation of the precious
trophy, a question that Joe put to Kate was answered in a way that made
him extravagantly happy.
The members of the Tapinyani syndicate sold their concession very well
during a boom in the South African market, and Joe Granton's share
enabled him to set up cattle ranching in handsome fashion. He and his
wife live very happily on a large farm given to them as a portion by Mr
Manning. Here they have made a very charming home of their own. The
great black switch tail of the bull giraffe hangs on the dining-room
wall, plain evidence of the curious romance in which it had been
involved.
Hume Wheler, who, with Tom Lane, occasionally drops in upon them during
his periodical trips from the interior, often chaffs his old friends
upon that celebrated trophy. "Ah! Mrs Joe," he says, on one of these
occasions, as he takes one of her two youngsters on his knee and looks
up at the tail. "Your husband captured you by a magnificent accident.
There never was a bigger fluke in this world than when the old fraud
knocked over that big `camel.'"