"_Maagtig_! but he's a fine ram," cried George, while congenially
amusing himself by cutting the beast's throat. "You didn't hit him by
accident, Mr Holt, hey?"
"Bad accident for the buck, anyway," said Brian with a dry laugh. "Well
done, Holt. I congratulate you. Thirteen-inch horns! We'll have them
done up for you as a trophy of your first bushbuck."
I was secretly not a little pleased with myself, as the buck, having
been cleaned, was loaded up behind my saddle, and we took our way
homewards, for Brian declared that we might be all day and not get
anything like so good a chance again, without beaters and with only
three dogs. Moreover, it was rather out of season, and they had come
out solely on my account. I, however, was amply content; indeed, I
sneakingly thought it just as well not to spoil the effect of my first
prowess by potential and subsequent misses.
Yes, I felt decidedly satisfied with myself and at peace with all the
world, as we drew near the homestead an hour or so later, with my quarry
strapped behind my saddle. I heeded not--was rather proud, in fact--of
the widening patch of gore which the movement of the horse caused to
gather upon my trouser leg during our progress. The "fellow just out
from home," the "raw Britisher," had vindicated himself. Even that
young rascal George seemed to treat me with a shade of newly-fledged
respect, and the very intonations in the voices of a couple of Kaffirs
hanging around, as we rode up, were intelligible to me as witnessing to
my prowess. Beryl and her father, who were sitting on the stoep when we
arrived, came out to meet us.
"Well done, Mr Holt!" said the former. "I'm so glad you've had some
luck."
"I think it was due to your last aspiration, Miss Matterson," I
answered, feeling with a satisfaction wholly uncalled for by the
occasion that somehow or other I had gone up in her estimation.
"Got him just above the krantz in the Zwaart Kloof, did you?" commented
her father. "That's the place where you'll nearly always get a chance.
I suppose this is your first experience of this kind of sport; but I can
tell you there's many a man, not a bad shot either, who doesn't fall
into it just so soon. George, take the horses round--let's see, keep
Bles up though, I may want him later. And now we'll go in to dinner."
Throughout that welcome repast I was plying my host eagerly with
questions as to the conditions of colonial life, and the vagaries of
stock-farming in general; and wondering what a long while ago it seemed
since I started for that fateful row at Whiddlecombe Regis, an
unconscious voyage of discovery which should terminate in this.
"There are a sight too many Kafirs near us," he said, in answer to one
of my questions. "That's the great drawback. They take too much toll
of our stock, and besides, they have been getting restless lately. Some
people set up a periodical scare, but I don't believe in that sort of
thing. As they are here we must rub along with them as best we can, and
I must say they bother me less than they do--or seem to do--some others.
But you never know what to expect with savages."
"I suppose not," I answered, thinking of the tussle I had witnessed that
morning, and remembering the malignant and vengeful looks of the
defeated barbarian as he slunk out by the cattle kraal. "But couldn't
they render the position--well, rather impossible for you, here, for
instance, if they were to combine."
"That's just it--they can't combine. But if you know how to take them,
and not expect to find angels under a red blanket and a daub of _root
klip_, you can pull with them as well as with anybody else. Only you
must never for a moment let them imagine you're afraid of them."
I little thought then how near was the time when I should witness
Septimus Matterson's theory tested--and that severely. Yet that was to
come, and it was only the beginning of a series of stirring events
calling for readiness of resource and cool judgment and iron courage.
The sun was shining now, the sky unclouded. Yet was the storm behind,
gathering afar.