"WALK, KULISO!"
"Two lives were taken, and these are two lives."
The words of old Dumela were humming through my brain, as I bent over
the dead boy in quest of spoor. Such was plain and abundant, and showed
that he had not been slain here, but had been deposited after death on
the spot where we had found him. But that we should find Septimus
Matterson alive neither of us ever for a moment dared to hope.
There was no difficulty in following the spoor by that clear light. The
savage murderers had left quite a broad path where they had dragged
their victim. No word did we exchange, Beryl and I. It was significant
that no thought of personal danger was in our minds, only a sickening
apprehension of what we were, at any moment, likely to come upon,
mingled with a fierce longing for revenge by reason of what we had
already found. These midnight assassins might even now be lying in wait
for us. Every bush might shelter a lurking foe, yet for our own safety
we had no thought. More than once in the course of my experiences I
have found myself in peril of my own life, but my feelings on such
occasions have been nothing to the awful boding suspense of that search,
through the still, unearthly midnight silence.
Suddenly our horses, which we had been leading as we followed the spoor,
snorted, and rucked back, nearly wrenching the bridles from our grasp.
Instinctively we both drew our revolvers; instinctively, too, we knew
that it was not the living that had startled the animals, but the dead.
Our quest was at an end. Septimus Matterson lay in full view, there in
the clear moonlight, but even before Beryl had rushed forward and thrown
herself beside him, we knew that there was no more life here than in the
poor little remains we had just left at no great distance away.
Yet, what had slain him? The attitude was calm and peaceful, for he lay
on his side as though asleep. No trace of wound or blow was upon him,
whereas the body of poor little George showed every mark of brutal
violence, from the deadly stab to the agonised contortion of his face.
But Septimus Matterson's strong, fine features were placid and
undisfigured. Then I remembered what Beryl had told me about her
father's life.
"He has not been killed," I whispered. "His heart has failed."
She nodded, but did not speak; and at that moment I could piece together
the whole of this grisly tragedy which the silent midnight bush had
witnessed: the fell carrying out of this grim vendetta which we ought
all to have known about and guarded against before it was too late. The
two had been waylaid and set upon suddenly when returning from Trask's,
and while George had been the main object of the vengeance of the
murderers the sudden shock of the surprise had stricken his father dead
through heart failure. That the body of the latter had suffered no
violence after death might have been due to the respect in which he had
been held while living, whereas the noosed ram which had been placed
around the neck of the boy seemed to add a lurid significance to old
Dumela's words, "`_Justice--the white man's justice--has not been done,'
they say_."
Beryl's expression of countenance was unfathomable, as she knelt there
supporting her dead father's head, tenderly stroking back the hair from
the forehead, wiping the cold, marble face with her white handkerchief.
And I, as I stood there gazing down upon the man who had been to me as a
father and a friend, and knew that we should never again hear his voice,
never again see those kindly eyes light up with mirth or recognition,
that his presence was removed from our midst for ever, I believe I
should have broken down and burst out blubbering like a schoolboy but
for what next occurred.
Beryl, having gently lowered the inanimate head, now rose. But no tears
glistened in her eyes. They were dry and hard with the terrible
intensity of the strain. No cry, no burst of agony escaped her breast;
but as she stood there, her tall form drawn to its full height, the look
upon her face was so awful, so blasting in its fury of hate and despair
and menace, that even in that moment of grief and horror I almost
recoiled from her. Heavens! Had her grief in its reaction merged
itself into this intensity, this overmastering impulse of hate and
revenge? If so, it seemed that her brain must give way.
"Come," she said, moving to the side of her horse.
"But, can you leave him--them?" I urged.
Was it a laugh--blood-curdling, maniacal--or was it the snarl of a
bereaved wild beast?
"We can leave them--now," she said. "First--justice. The justice of
revenge. Come."
Gaining her saddle without my aid she led the way from that evil and
accursed spot. But it was the opposite way to that by which we had
come. She uttered no word. But the positions were reversed now. She
led, and I followed--wondering.
We reached the high ridge at the head of the kloof, then descended into
the valley wherein, much higher up, the house stood. This we left, and,
crossing the valley, ascended by a steep track to a high "neck" which
cleft the heights on the further side. We had by this time been riding
for nearly an hour.
Now, as we halted to breathe our horses, and sat in our saddles, gazing
forth upon the more open country beyond, before us the shadowy veldt,
stretching away into moonlit dimness, was lit up here and there in the
distance by twinkling points of light, over which hung a misty glow.
These were the fires in the Ndhlambe location, whence, ever and again,
in humming waves of sound, came a weird rhythmical chant, to a strange
stamping accompaniment, varied by the howling of dogs or the faint
shrill laughter of women. The savages were enjoying themselves in
uproarious merrymaking.
No word had Beryl uttered all this time, but now she spoke, and the
words which she did say fairly startled me, for they were of such import
that I knew the chances were as fifty to one against either or both of
us living to see the light of another day. She read off my thoughts as
in a flash.
"Do not let me take you into this, Kenrick. After all, there is a risk.
I can bring it off alone."
"Do be just to me, dear," I said gently, putting forth my hand till it
rested on hers. "Do you think the idea of deserting you ever crossed my
mind for the single fraction of an instant? It was of you I was
thinking. Now listen. Leave this to me. I will do exactly what you
have been planning--I alone. I will carry it out to the letter. Life
is nothing to me--forgive me for speaking selfishly at such a time. Go
back to--to them. I pledge you my word of honour and my life that I
will do all you would have done. But you?--you must not embark in such
an undertaking as this. Now--will you leave it to me?"
"No--a thousand times no. Kenrick, you are loyal and brave as few men
are. Pardon my doubting you, or seeming to, for I never did so really."
In spite of the grief and woe which had come upon us, of the desperate
undertaking to which we were pledged, a thrill of genuine exaltation set
my pulses tingling at her words, her tone. We were close together. Our
horses, glad of even this temporary rest, were standing still. I was
going into almost certain death--with her, and I would not have
exchanged the situation for any other on earth. A wild, well-nigh
uncontrollable impulse seized me. Her great eyes were turned full upon
mine, and the pallid hardness of her face seemed to relax. Then the
recollection of what had happened, of what we had just looked upon, came
back and I mastered the impulse. Assuredly if there was a time for all
things this was not a time for some things--yet I read a meaning into a
strange weary sigh that escaped her, as she gave the word to resume our
way.
The Ndhlambe huts, beehive-shaped, yellow-thatched, lay clustering in
the moonlight, spreading over the veldt far and wide. Innumerable they
seemed, and from the dark, mimosa-stockaded enclosures came now and then
a bleat, or the trumpet-like sneeze of a goat, and the sweet night air
was unfragrant with the mingled odour of kine and wood smoke, and the
musty reek of ochre-smeared Kafir humanity.
Most of the merrymakers had departed to their own kraals, but here and
there, in that of the chief, dark groups still stood around. These
gazed, with muttered wonder, upon this strange apparition of two white
people riding into their midst at such a time of night, and one of those
whites a woman. Formidable, too, they looked, those astonished and
staring savages, many of them tall, well-nigh gigantic of frame, and you
could see the rolling white of their distended eyeballs as they stood
and gazed.
"Where is Kuliso? Where is the chief?"
The tone was firm, clear, audible to all. The Kafirs looked at each
other.
"_Au_! That is his house, _Umlungase_," [white woman] and the speaker
pointed to a large hut standing among a group. "But--it is night."
"Request him to come forth. I would talk with him," went on Beryl,
speaking fluently in the vernacular, of which I, as I have before
mentioned, had by this time picked up a very fair knowledge.
There was hesitation, muttered dissatisfaction, among the men, as we
turned and headed straight for the hut they had pointed out, they
following a short distance behind. The chief did not care to see
visitors at such a time, was the not unnatural burden of their
objections.
But just then two Kafirs emerged from one of the huts, and stood in
front of us. One of them I recognised, and even were it otherwise the
murmur of astonishment and profound deference which greeted his
appearance would have been sufficient to identify him. The tall, fine
form, the strong, bearded face, the lofty forehead with its air of
command, I was not likely to forget. Now the expression of that face
was divided between wonder and a scowl of resentment. Then Beryl spoke.
"I see you, Kuliso. What is the news, Kuliso?"
"_Whau_!" cried the chief, bringing his hand to his mouth in displeased
amazement. "What is this? What does it mean?"
"This," said Beryl, covering him with her revolver. "Walk, Kuliso.
Walk in front of me."
Then indeed the chief's exclamation of amazement was emphatic, and was
echoed by those gathered around. A command--addressed to him! To
_him_--and by a woman! But that unerring revolver covered him, and the
skill of this particular woman was known to him--was known to most of
those present. There was no escape; and again that word--this time
shorter and more crisp--
"Walk, Kuliso!"
The chief stared--stared at the deadly weapon--stared at the face behind
it. Then he--walked.
I, too, looked at that face. The large eyes shone from its hard, deadly
whiteness, with a fell and appalling stare. Could this be the face
whose sunny, equable sweetness had captured my heart, and held it? Now
it was as the face of a fiend--a ruthless, unswerving, vengeful fiend.
Seeing it thus, I scarcely wondered that this great savage, the chief of
a large section of a powerful tribe, should docilely obey its compelling
force to the extent of walking forth alone, unarmed, from among his
hundreds of turbulent followers, at the behest of one individual, and
that individual a woman.
Then as we paced forth in this strange order of march, a spell seemed to
have fallen upon all who beheld. Not a hand was raised, not a voice.
It was as though they were bewitched. After the first gasp of wonder
the silence was intense--awful. But it was not to last.