For some time the thought uppermost in the mind of the survivor was that
of relief. An incubus had fallen from him; a plague spot that for the
last two or three years had been eating into and embittering his life,
and rendering its otherwise achieved success null and void.
He did not regret what he had done. He had given the other every
chance, and the other had refused to take it. If ever an act of
self-defence had been committed it was this one. Self-defence, yes; for
sooner or later the dead man's exactions would have culminated in his
own ruin and suicide. Even from the physical side of it the other had
drawn a weapon upon him. And, in sum, what more loathsome and poisonous
animal exists in the world than a blackmailer? This one had richly
earned his fate.
That was all very well, but in came another side to the situation. How
would the law regard it? Well, he supposed that in this wild,
out-of-the-way part things were done of which the law never got wind at
all. The country, of course, was within the administration of British
jurisprudence, but then, as he had told the slain man, they had not been
seen together, and he had done his best to destroy all possibility of
the discovery of any _corpus delicti_.
But as he held on through the dark and solemn forest path he grew less
elate. The hideous end of the dead man seemed to haunt him, the agony
depicted on that livid distorted countenance, the whole seemed to rise
up before him again in these gloomy shades. He concentrated his
attention on the surroundings, vividly interesting in their wildness and
novelty, in their strange denizens, specimens of which in the shape of
bird or animal would now and again dash across his way, but still the
haunting face was there.
The thing was absurd, he kept saying to himself. Men shot their fellows
in battle in defence of their country or of their country's cause, and
thought no more about it. Some even bragged of it. Again, in a naval
engagement, when a hostile ship was sunk, did not the other side do all
it could to rescue the survivors struggling in the water? Well, this
was precisely an analogy as regarded his own case, with this difference,
that the rescued in the naval engagement had not the power to injure
their rescuers further, whereas the man he had slain had, and certainly
had the will. Yet, at the last moment, he had honestly attempted to
rescue him, at any rate from that horrible fate.
What was this? Had he taken a wrong path in the course of his
reflections? For his way seemed suddenly barred. A fallen trunk,
massive and rotting with age lay across it, and there seemed no way
round it but cutting one through a dense wall of creepers and coarse
grass. Even then the path seemed to end.
He dismounted and, hitching his horse to a bough, climbed on to the
fallen tree-trunk to reconnoitre. A snake glided off it, hissing, but
too rapidly for him to be able to distinguish the species. No, there
was no way beyond the trunk. It had evidently been disused since it was
blocked, and some other taken. That other way he must have missed, and
the only thing to do would be to find it.
Acting upon this idea he remounted and rode back upon his trail. After
going some distance it occurred to him that the surroundings were
unfamiliar, for he had neglected that safe rule that in travelling on a
strange way for the first time, it is well to look back occasionally to
accustom oneself to it from the contrary direction for purposes of
return; wherein the simile of the "hand to the plough" emphatically does
not hold good.
Ah, here it was! He had left the path even as he had thought. Here was
the right one. Accordingly he put his horse into it, and then
discovered that his said horse was going lame. Carefully he examined
all four hoofs. No, there was no stone or anything of the kind.
This was a blank outlook. The still atmosphere of the forest seemed
more fever-breathing than ever, and the sky had darkened. A boom of
thunder came rolling through the stillness, not so distant either, then
a gleam and then another sullen roll. He started. This was no joke.
He was in for a sudden storm, and among all these tall tree-trunks too.
If only he could reach some native kraal.
But, then, he had heard that the natives were restless, and that it was
not altogether safe for one man alone to go among many. He was well
armed, certainly, but what is one among many? He had sufficient food
for one meal, and a flask. By way of putting a more cheerful light on
the situation he took a pull at the latter.
"A beastly place to camp in," he said to himself, looking around.
"Faugh! It simply reeks of fever. If only one could find somewhere
more open."
Now the lightning began to gleam vividly down through the tree-tops, and
the thunder crashed in short, angry barks; but no rain had fallen as
yet. It was one of those most dangerous storms of all--a _dry_ storm.
Suddenly a big yellowwood, barely thirty yards off, burst into splinters
and sparks as a wreath of flame ran down it into the ground. The
thunder-crash that accompanied was awful. The wayfarer's steed started
violently and backed, nearly throwing its rider, then stood stock still,
trembling and snorting.
"Oh, blazes, that's nasty!" growled the latter. "Well, I suppose if one
has to go under one has, but I'd rather not just at present. Hullo!
what's that?"
Far a sound had reached him from in front--a sound uncommonly like the
barking of dogs. The horse had heard it too, for it pricked up its ears
and snuffed the air. By now it was going dead lame.
A few big drops came pattering through the trees, then ceased. The
thunder-rolls grew less frequent and less loud. The storm was passing
over.
Now the barking of dogs sounded nearer and nearer. Instinctively the
wayfarer looked to the cartridges in his revolver, then, replacing the
weapon, continued to advance, yet very much on the look-out.
The forest ended abruptly. In front, on a bare ridge or spur, running
down from a great height, lay a small kraal, numbering four huts,
enclosed within a circular thorn stockade. Beyond it again lay an
unbroken mass of forest.
The appearance of the wayfarer in the open was the signal for a rush of
dogs from the kraal gate. These were not of the ordinary native
greyhound breed, but massive bullet-headed brutes of the Boer mastiff
type, and as formidable as wolves. There were three of them, and their
savage charge and deep-mouthed baying caused the horseman instinctively
to grasp the butt of his revolver. He had no fancy for being pulled
from his saddle. On the other hand, if he were to shoot one or all of
them, would he not have human enemies to deal with scarcely less
formidable? And as though to bear out this idea, three tall,
savage-looking Zulus, armed with broad assegais, strode through the gate
towards him.
The wayfarer began to think he had got into a bad fix. He had six
revolver shots and a rifle bullet, as against three human and three
four-footed enemies, and the chances were all in favour of the latter,
out in the open like this, and mounted as he was on a lame horse. But
the natives began by calling off the dogs, which was reassuring; yet
they seemed to be barring his way, while talking to him volubly. Here
again he was in a quandary, for except for a word or two of ordinary use
he could understand no Zulu. There was one argument, however, which he
judged to appeal to all mankind, wherefore he produced a capacious
tobacco pouch.
But even that met with no response. The demeanour of the trio was the
reverse of friendly, and behind them the three great, evil-looking
brutes were stalking up and down, their hackles raised, and muttering
and growling, as though impatient for the word to spring upon the
stranger. Then after a consultation among themselves, one of the men
turned and went into the kraal again.
The wayfarer was nonplussed. It was obvious that they were incapable of
understanding each other, for even to signs they seemed impervious.
At last, however, the other man reappeared, and made it apparent, by
very unmistakable signs, that he should dismount and enter.
This he accordingly did, trying not to show the while that he was keenly
on his guard against treachery. They signed him to a hut, that he
should enter it. He crept through the low door way. The interior was
dark after the daylight outside, and he took a minute or two to get
accustomed to the semi-gloom. Then he realised that the place contained
one man, and he a European.
He was squatted on the floor, native fashion, smoking a pipe. He was an
old man apparently, for his hair and thick beard were white, yet the
face somehow did not seem quite to correspond. It looked younger, but
there was an expression in it which was very curious, one of mingled
melancholy and malevolence, at least so decided the stranger. But no
word or movement of welcome did he make towards the latter, who,
perforce, had to open the conversation.
"Well, this is very jolly," he began, "stumbling upon a white man. The
fact is I can't talk the lingo, and couldn't ask the way for one thing."
"Where are you bound for?"
The voice, dead, dull, expressionless, was peculiar. But it was a
refined voice.
"I wanted first to get to Ezulwini."
"You were going in exactly the contrary direction, that's all."
The other started. Had this mysterious personage been aware of his
progress all along? he wondered. The thought was rather disquieting
under all the circumstances. The man was a puzzle. He seemed to prefer
his unexpected guest's room to his company.
"My horse has gone dead lame," went on the latter. "He may be all right
in the morning. But, meanwhile, I shall have to throw myself upon your
hospitality, or camp outside in the veldt."