Meanwhile some curious and somewhat startling circumstances were
developing. Sergeant Dickinson, N.P., stationed at Makanya, was--as we
heard Harry Stride say in substance--an astute officer. So astute was
he as to render him unpopular with a section of the natives, and notably
with those who were disaffected. Twice, indeed, had his life been
attempted by these, but with firm faith in the proverb, "Threatened men
live long," such attempts had not seriously affected him. They were
"all in the day's work," and only served to create a little excitement
in an otherwise rather monotonous round.
Harry Stride's find of the saddle below the Bobi drift had come to him
as a godsend. Could he work up a case out of it? He thought about it a
good deal, and round and round; but this was after he had started with
one of the four troopers under his command on a patrol immediately, and
the two were threading the several hours of difficult and rugged forest
path in the direction of the find.
He had no difficulty in locating the exact spot. Stride's description
had been lucid and accurate--the drift itself, of course, was well-known
to him.
"The thing to do, Symes," he said, "is to examine both banks right the
way down. If the saddle was here there may be other things further on.
We'll take this side first."
Carefully Dickinson quartered the river bank, the trooper leading both
horses. It was rough going, but both were young and hard. Suddenly the
trooper exclaimed--
"Look there, Dickinson!"
He was pointing to the other side. Something like a strip of clothing
was fluttering from a bush hardly above water level. When the river was
higher it would have been beneath it.
Now a strip of clothing in that position, amid the wildest part of the
very wild Makanya forest, was a thing to attract attention. The natives
frequently wore clothes, it was true; still, under the circumstances
Sergeant Dickinson thought it worthy of note. And just as he had so
decided, something else caught his attention.
"Symes," he said quickly, "I'm going to swim across. I fancy there's
something worth finding on the other side."
"Swim across?" said Symes, with an expletive. "I wouldn't. The river's
full of blooming crocs."
"I know. But we'll give 'em a holy scare first."
"Why not ride round by the blanked drift and come down the bank?" said
Trooper Symes. "This is a plaguy rotten deep hole."
"Because of that krantz. It comes right down to the water, and to dodge
it means the devil's own delay getting here. And if what I see is what
I think, why, every minute is important."
He had thrown off his tunic--he knew better than to throw off all his
clothes to swim a crocodile-infested river, for with this obnoxious
saurian, as with the wily shark, experience goes to show that a clothed
man is safer than an unclothed one; possibly there is something alarming
in the artificiality of his clothes--or is it the bad fit of his tailor?
Now he drew his revolver and so did the trooper. Both fired several
shots into the water at various points.
"But what in blazes d'you think you do see?" said Symes.
"I'll tell you when I get to the other side," and Sergeant Dickinson
took the water with a mighty splash.
It was not very wide there, though smooth and deep. A few long, strong
strokes and the swimmer was on the other side, holding his revolver
holster high above water in one hand, for he of all people did not care
to be unarmed in that locality.
Eagerly, excitedly, he climbed up the bank. An exclamation of
satisfaction mingled with utter disgust escaped him.
"Symes," he called out. "You've got to go back to camp as hard as you
can push your horse; hitch mine up to the bush yonder, but firmly. Get
my kodak--see it's not been used since I filled it yesterday--and then
get back here as hard as ever you can."
"Kodak! I'm blanked! You might let on what you've found," grumbled
Symes.
"It's a head, man, a white man's head. I can't bring it across the
river, it's in such a disgusting condition that the damn thing'd tumble
to pieces. Ugh! Must take its likeness to establish identity. So put
your best leg forward."
Trooper Symes at once laid himself out to sustain the traditional
reputation of his rank. He swore.
"Don't blab the affair in camp," called out his superior, as he started.
The latter, left alone, began eagerly, with his investigations.
Anything more revolting than the aspect of his find can hardly be
imagined. Yet considering that it must have been in the water several
days, and several more since it had been stranded through the subsidence
of the river, it was surprising in what a recognisable state the swollen
features were. Yet, the horror and repulsion of this revolting sight
was merged in Dickinson's professional exultation as he examined it long
and attentively. It had not been severed by any sharp instrument, but
presented the appearance of having been _torn_ off. This pointed to the
agency of crocodiles. Yet why had they left it? Here was a mystery to
be unearthed, a clue to go upon. Here was the _corpus delicti_. The
bullet hole in the broken saddle which Stride had brought him was
another link in the chain. Were there no others?
First there was the strip of clothing which he had seen from the other
side. It he examined. It was of khaki-like material, something akin to
that employed for the uniform of the Force, and yet different. Ah, what
was this? Trailing in the river was the fragment of a coat, hitched to
a thorn. In his eagerness to get at it he nearly fell into the water.
There was a pocket. Eagerly the sergeant's hand investigated this, only
to come in contact with what seemed a mass of pulp. He drew it forth.
It slipped through his fingers and fell into the river--once it had been
papers, but the immersion had reduced it to pulp, yet not quite all of
it so escaped. One fragment remained, and it seemed to have been part
of an extra strong envelope. This he examined eagerly. It bore a
blurred and faded scrawl, most of which had entirely disappeared. By
dint of the most patient and careful scrutiny Dickinson succeeded in
making out--
H. Gold
Box
Jo
The rest had gone with the other fragment of the envelope--had run off
to pulp.
"H. Gold--something. Box--something. Jo--hannesburg," was how he
pieced this scanty clue together. "Well, Johannesburg is all `gold,' or
it's supposed to be," and he grinned to himself at this lame joke. "But
I wonder what's the other half of the name--Goldstein or Goldschmidt, or
Goldberg or Gold--what? Then, again, there must be tens of thousands of
P.O. boxes there too, and it's clearly one of these. But how the deuce
one is to trace any of the thousands of children of Israel whose names
begin with `Gold' is another side of the joke."
He carefully copied the fragment into his notebook, imitating as nearly
as possible, and that was very nearly indeed, the character of the
writing. Then he looked around in search of further fragments. There
were none.
Dickinson got a couple of sticks, for he could not touch the loathly
thing, and having first lighted his pipe, managed to get the head into a
possible position for photographic purposes. Then he sat down--at a
respectable distance--and began to study the features.
"One of the children of Israel, if ever there was one, and no mistake
about it," he decided. "Ugh, I've looked at the ugly thing long
enough."
Another pipe was filled and lighted. He felt hungry, and the stuff he
had brought with him for lunch was in his holster on the other side. He
did not care to swim the river alone, with no one to help scare
potential crocodiles. He felt thirsty too, but he would have to feel a
great deal more so before letting himself drink from the water that had
held that dreadful thing facing him. He cut some boughs and placed them
over it to keep off the flies, then returned to his seat in the
demi-shade of a thorn-tree, and proceeded to elaborate theories with all
his might--not that there was much to go upon as yet.
He stood a good chance for the next Sub-Inspectorship which should fall
vacant; could he but work up this case successfully it would be the
making of him. There was a girl over in Natal whom he wanted to marry,
and to whom he was more than half engaged; but they had agreed to wait
for the Sub-Inspectorship. It was hot, very hot. Would his comrade
never come back? The hours wore on. The ripple and murmur of the river
was soothing. Dickinson felt drowsy. Presently he slid more and more
from his sitting posture and slept, and dreamed of the girl over in
Natal.
He slept on and on, now hard and dreamlessly. But by that time Sergeant
Dickinson, N.P., was in greater peril than he had ever been in his life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yonder now, Shumilana," whispered Mandevu. "The distance is near
enough. It is not safe to go nearer, but at such short distance, for
one who was taught to shoot when in the _Nongqai_, [in this instance the
Zululand Native Police], and turned out of it through him who lies
yonder, it is not possible to miss."
And the two dark figures crouched down upon the rock which overlooked
the sleeping Dickinson at about two hundred yards, while the discharged
policeman stealthily drew forward his Martini rifle and carefully
sighted it.
Wake up, Dickinson, for this man is one of the few natives who can use a
rifle with accuracy of aim, and he has been taught by the ruling race.
And he is drawing a fine "bead" on the two hundred yards sight. He held
the same rank in his corps that you hold in yours, and it was through
your agency that he was--rightly--degraded and dismissed the Force. He
is as cool-nerved as you are yourself, and is not likely to miss. Wake
up, if you would ever see the girl over in Natal again. Wake up,
Dickinson!
Just then a lizard runs over the face of the sleeper, causing him to
half jump up, half roll over. Bang, crash! and the bullet embeds itself
in the trunk of the thorn-tree, which a second before had been
supporting the weight of his body. It takes only another second for him
to throw himself flat behind a mound of loose stones surmounted by a
growth of short bush.
Sergeant Dickinson is as brave a man as there is in the Force, and that
is saying a great deal. He realises now that he is in a tight corner.
The rascal, whoever he may be, _can_ shoot; moreover, he has a rifle,
whereas he himself has only his regulation revolver. The enemy can keep
beyond range and stalk him, from a distance, at leisure. And to enforce
this side of the situation bang comes another bullet, right through the
growth of bush which surmounts the loose stones. But a Martini is a
slow-firing rifle, and the target, with lightning-like resource, has
flattened down behind the stones.
"Good line that, damn him," he growls, as the air caused by the humming
missile is distinctly perceptible above his head. "Well, I'm done at
last. He can't go on missing all day."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I thought thou couldst shoot true, Shumilana," whispers Mandevu.
"_Whau_!"
The last, _staccato_. For a bullet has splattered hard against the rock
upon which the two are lying. It has not come from the man in yonder
flimsy cover, but from across the river. Another follows sharp, and it
splinters the stock of Shumilana's piece, causing him to drop it with a
growl of pain, for the shock has strained the muscles of his wrist and
numbed his whole arm. The two savages drop from their lurking-place and
glide away like snakes into the thicker bush, only barely in time to
avoid another bullet which rips viciously over them. And Trooper Symes
chuckles as he rides down to the river bank, where the other horse
whinnies excitedly at the reunion.
Dickinson's first remark was characteristic.
"Got the kodak, Symes?"
"Of course. Here it is."
"Well, I'll bring it through."
"No fear. It'll save time if I do."
Holding the case high above his head, Symes was through in a minute.
"It's a case of sharp's the word if we're to catch the light," said
Dickinson, and forthwith he proceeded to uncover the ghastly relic.
"There," he went on, having taken half-a-dozen snapshots at every angle,
"we've got the workings of something of a case."
"Faugh! Ugly-looking devil, any way you look at him," pronounced Symes.
"A blanked `Sheeny' if ever there was one."
Characteristically again, then and only then did Dickinson refer to the
very narrow escape he had had.
"What made you bring the rifle, Symes?"
"Dunno. Thought we might get a chance at a buck going back. Lucky I
did."
"Rather; they'd have done for me. I hadn't a chance. Shake, old chap."
The two comrades shook hands, and then thought no more about the matter.
It was all in the day's work.
"I wonder," said Dickinson, when they had regained the other side--they
had buried the head under a pile of stones, "I wonder who the swine
could have been who was sniping me. He knew how to shoot, by the Lord!
Shouldn't wonder if it's some discharged _Nongqai_. I always held it a
mistake teaching those chaps to shoot."
Symes agreed--with language, as usual. Then they had a hurried snack,
and rode off--two very wet police--to find some safer and more open
locality for their night camp. But that, too, was all in the day's
work.