Simcox's farm, Buffels Draai, comprised about as wild a tract of bush
country as exists, although not many hours' ride or drive from the
busiest of Cape Colony towns. Before Dick Selmes had been in the house
two hours he had completely won the hearts of Mrs Simcox and the two
grown-up nice, plain, homely girls, but blessed with no particular
outward attractions; while Simcox himself pronounced him, when out of
his hearing, as nice a young fellow as he had ever run against. Before
he had been in the house two weeks he had shot many bush-bucks, and
other unconsidered trifles, and knew his way all about the place. He
took a vivid interest in everything, and imbibed veldt-craft with an
adaptability which surprised his host and Harley Greenoak. Likewise he
had learned what an astonishing number of things he could do without,
together with what an astonishing number of things he could do for
himself.
Just about that time they were seated out on the stoep one evening,
talking over a projected bush-buck hunt, when there arose a sudden and
terrific clamour from the dogs lying around the house. These sprang up,
and rushed, barking and growling furiously, towards the nearest bush
line.
"_Magtig_!" exclaimed Simcox. "Wonder if those infernal half-tame
elephants are going to give us a look round? The dogs are more than
ordinarily excited."
"Tame?" said Dick, inquiringly, as they stood up to gaze in the
direction of the hubbub.
"Well, they're just tame enough to be _schelm_ and do a heap of
mischief, otherwise they're wild enough. There are buffalo too, but
there is no tameness about them. They generally stick away in the
thicker thorns on the other side of the bush. Here, let's go over and
see what's up."
They got a gun apiece and set forth. The cause of the racket was soon
revealed, and it took the form of a badly-scared old Hottentot, who had
fortunately found a handy tree. The dogs were driven off, and even as
they took him to the house he told his story, and a tragical story it
was. A buffalo had killed Jan Bruintjes, the boy who brought the
mail-bags from the local post-office. The narrator and he were walking
along the road, when an enormous buffalo bull rushed out of the bush and
caught Jan on its horns, flung him into the air, and when he fell,
ripped and gored him again and again. Dead? Oh, he was so torn as to
be hardly recognisable. He himself had hidden, and then, when the beast
had gone, went back to look at his friend. Where did it happen? About
half an hour from the house, where the road made a bend towards Krantz
Hoek. He had come straight to tell Baas Simcox.
"Well, we can't do anything to-night," declared the latter, "first thing
in the morning, I'll go round and investigate. I wonder if that's the
brute that chevied the Alexandria post cart last year? The driver
tootled his horn, but it had the opposite effect intended. The horses
bolted and upset the cart against a tree. The driver was killed--not in
the same way--gored to death. In fact this brute is suspected of having
done for half a dozen in all, and it's very likely true. He set up a
perfect scare at one time, like an Indian man-eater would."
"They must be a jolly nuisance," said Dick. "If I lived here I'd jolly
well thin them down."
"Would you? Fine of 100 pounds a head. They're strictly preserved."
"Well, it's a beastly shame."
"So it is," said Harley Greenoak. "But buffalo rank first among game
called dangerous, especially in country like this." And he told a yarn
or two to bear out his statement.
One yarn led to another, and it was rather later than usual when they
went to bed.
The story he had just heard fired Dick Selmes' imagination to such an
extent that when he got to his room he felt it was impossible to go to
sleep or even to turn in. He hung out of his open window, and in the
sombre shadow of the depths of the moonlit bush, seemed to see the whole
horrid tragedy re-enacted. The boom of night-flying beetles, the chirp
of the tree-frog, the whistle of plover, now invisible overhead, now
lighting on the ground in darting white spots, were all to him as the
poetic voices of the weirder night which could contain such tragical
possibilities: and it seemed that each ghostly sound--whether of
mysterious rustling, or the clatter of a stone--heralded the appearance
of the terrible beast, pacing forth into the open, its wicked, massive
horns still smeared with the unfortunate man's blood. Then an idea
struck him--struck him between the eyes, so to speak--for it was a
momentous one. What if he--?
He got out his double gun, slipped a Martini cartridge into the rifle
breech, a heavy charge of loepers into the smooth-bore, and two or three
spare ones into his pocket. The window was only his own height from the
ground. Out of this he dropped quietly, so as not to rouse the house.
But he reckoned without the dogs. Those faithful animals immediately
sprang up, and from all directions came for him open-mouthed. They knew
him well enough to quiet their clamour almost immediately, but even then
their delighted whining at the prospect of a nocturnal hunt was almost
as noisy. But he had to drive them back, even with stones. Then he
struck into the darkest shades of the bush, relieved that the clamour
had apparently aroused no one.
How glad he felt that he knew his way about fairly well by this time!
In the bright moonlight he had no difficulty whatever in finding it.
Yet every stealthy sound set his heart wildly beating, and he carried
his gun at full cock. Ah, here was the place.
The white riband of road snaked away in the moonlight--and--here was the
spot. Yes, the huge hoof-marks were plain, and the signs in the dust of
a sudden scuffle; and there were two of the leathern letter-bags carried
by the unfortunate man lying by the roadside, and then--Dick Selmes, for
all, his pluck, for all his ambition, and the adventurous excitement
that had swayed him, felt quite sick. For, lying there by the roadside,
torn, horribly mangled, was the body of the unfortunate victim itself.
But somehow the sight, horrible though it was, roused in him a fierce
longing for retribution. If he could but find the slayer! Yet, why
not? He had no dogs to give the miscreant warning of his approach, and
if it did "wind" him, in its present mood, why, it would not be the one
of the two the most eager to vanish. He tried hard to follow the spoor;
and up to a certain distance succeeded, then it got lost in the shadows
of the bush. Even then he would not give up. He had the whole night
before him, and--if he should return in the morning triumphant? The
very thought acted like a spur.
Moving cautiously, his weapon cocked and ready, he was compelled to move
slowly. And now every sound intensified itself tenfold, and once a
bush-buck, undisturbed by his silent advance until he was close upon it,
sprang up and bounded away with a rustle that made him think it could be
nothing less than the gigantic destroyer itself.
Now he could not be far from the spot, he decided. Yes. Here was
Krantz Hoek. There was the row of straight-stemmed euphorbia, pluming
the crescent of the cliff, just as described by the old Hottentot. The
bush around was mainly _spekboem_ and mimosa, not growing tall, in fact
scarcely higher than his head, and in some places not that. He began to
feel conscious of a consuming thirst, but this was dry country and dry
weather, so there was no remedy for that. He began to feel something
else--to wit that he had been a fool to come, and somehow all the
excitement and anticipation began to evaporate, and the process of
evaporation seemed to progress with quite extraordinary rapidity. And
then--and then--just as he had fully made up his mind to retrace his
steps--if he could--a sudden clink and rattle of stones set him wide on
the alert--and--Heavens! what was this?
Seeming to rise out of the ground, something huge and black rose up in
the moonlight. There it stood, the terrible beast, the manslayer,
gigantic in its might, and for a moment the spectator stood petrified.
This then was what he had come out to find, he in his puniness! The
curved horns gleamed viciously, the fierce head with its mail-clad
frontlet moved to and fro, the dilated nostrils sniffing the air as
though scenting the presence of an enemy.
It was a nerve-trying sight, and the startling suddenness of the
apparition rendered it more so. Dick Selmes' nerves were sound and in
good training, yet the thought that here he was, alone with this
monster, certain death before him if he failed to kill at the first
shot, might well have unsteadied him. The great bull was standing
turned sideways, and did not seem actually to have seen him. By slowly
sinking down behind the bush he might still escape.
But escape was not what he had come out for. He had come out to kill,
and that to his own hand. So aiming carefully where he thought the
heart should be, he pressed the trigger.
The effect was startling. There was a snort and then a series of savage
bellowings rent the night. The huge, grisly head was tossed from side
to side and the white foam poured from the open mouth. Quickly Dick
Selmes slipped another cartridge into the rifle brooch, but before he
could so much as bring the piece to his shoulder the brute sighted him,
and came straight for him.
In a flash Dick realised that there was nothing to aim at but the
mail-clad head. He turned and ran, and as he ran, the dictum of Harley
Greenoak as to the buffalo holding first rank among dangerous game, and
held in greater respect than any by old hunters, leapt through his mind.
And he in his rawness had come out to tackle this terror single-handed,
and at night. The thunder of his huge pursuer shook the ground beneath
him, the savage growling bellow of its appalling voice was in his ears,
the vision of its mangled victim in his brain. It was upon him. Then
he missed his footing and fell--shot head first into a large ant-bear
hole, which yawned suddenly at his feet. Nothing else on this earth
could have saved him. He felt the vibration as that vast bulk thundered
past, and wormed himself with a mighty effort still further in, not
without fears that those dreadful horns might still contrive to dig
their way to him.
Suddenly the din ceased, but what was this? In front of him, in the
black darkness something growled.
It was not the original excavator of the hole, he knew, for the
ant-bear, which is not a "bear" at all but a timid and harmless beast,
does not growl. Well, at any rate, as the destroyer seemed to have
retreated, he had better retire as he had come, and leave this most
opportune hiding-place to its lawful owner. To that intent he made a
move to draw back.
But even with that slight move the growl grew more prolonged, more
vicious. And then Dick Selmes realised that the peril which he had just
escaped was as nothing to the ghastly peril he was in now. _He could
not withdraw_.
The hole slanted downwards at an angle of forty-five, and even then it
had required all the effort of despair to squeeze himself in where it
narrowed. But to do this from above was one thing, to squeeze himself
up again, and that backwards, was another. _He could not do it_.
The blood, all run to his head, seemed to burst his brain, and the
perspiration streamed from every pore, as his most violent and powerful
efforts failed to release him by a single inch. He was imprisoned by
where the tunnel narrowed over his legs. If he could have got at his
knife he might have done something, but his hands and arms were extended
straight out in front of him, nor could he draw them back. _He had
performed his own funeral_.
Who would know where to look for him? Even if he were found, it might
not be for days, and by that time it would be too late. He had entombed
himself, and a few yards in front of him some savage beast was growling
in the pitch darkness--some beast, cowardly it might be in itself, but
whose lair he was blocking, and which, realising his utter helplessness,
would speedily attack him, and gnaw its way to freedom _through him_.
Small wonder that an awful terror should freeze his every faculty.
What the creature might be he had no very definite idea. It was not a
leopard, or it would have attacked him sooner. It was probably a hyaena
or wild dog--both timid of mankind in the open, but anything is
formidable when cornered. The growls grew increasingly loud and
menacing--they seemed to be drawing nearer too--and every moment the
helpless man expected to feel the snapping fangs tearing at his face and
head. Again he made a frantic effort, but utterly without avail. The
suffocating atmosphere, together with the rush of the blood to the head
owing to his position, was fast causing him to lose consciousness. He
was in a place of darkness, being tormented by some raging demon.
Surely this was death!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"That's better. Buck up. I thought you were a `goner.'" And Harley
Greenoak's voice had a ring of concern, as he bent over his charge.
"So did I," answered Dick, unsteadily, opening his eyes to the blessed
air and light. "How did you get me out?"
"Man, I gripped you by the ankles, and just lugged. It was touch and go
then, I can tell you."
"But how did you know where to find me?"
"When I hear a fellow like you get up when he ought to be going to bed--
when I see him slope into the bush with a gun, after the yarn we've just
heard to-night, it stands to reason he wants looking after. Dick, your
dad spoke true when he told me you were fond of getting into holes."
"Well, if I hadn't got into that hole I should have been still more
done," laughed Dick, at his own joke. And then he told the other about
the buffalo.
"If yes," said Greenoak, musingly. "You've got a hundred pounds to
spare, I take it?"
"A hundred--" Then Dick broke off as a new light struck him. "Why, man,
you don't mean to say I've turned over the bull?"
"Dead as a door-nail--and with one Martini bullet, too. He's lying just
yonder. There's a hundred-pound fine, you know."
A ringing hurrah broke the calm stillness of the night.
"Then it's worth it," cried Dick. "By the way, there's something in
that hole--a wolf or a wild dog."
"Oh," and the other cocked his rifle.
"No," said Dick, with a hand on his arm. "We'll let it off--as it let
me off."
"We'll just have to finish the night here," said Greenoak; "that is if
you want that head to stick up in your ancestral halls, and it's jolly
well worth it. Otherwise the jackals and wild dogs'll mangle it out of
all recognition before morning."
Dick readily agreed, and the two, collecting some dry wood, soon had a
roaring fire under way.
"Why, this is your first camp, Dick," said Greenoak, reaching out a
handful of tobacco for him to fill from, and then filling up himself.
"Rather," was the answer. "Oh, it's glorious--glorious," jumping up
again to go and look at the mighty beast, lying there but a few yards
off in the moonlight. Harley Greenoak laughed.
"He's all right. He won't run away," he said. "Nothing will touch him
either while we are here. Better go to sleep."
"Not much sleep for me to-night. No fear," said Dick.
And he was right. The excitement, the keen fresh air, the sights and
sounds of the surrounding forest were too much for this ardent young
novice, and he hardly closed his eyes. Yet in the morning he was none
the worse.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The astonishment in the Simcox household when they heard what had
happened was something to witness. The feminine element started in to
scold Harley Greenoak for allowing his charge to run such a tremendous
risk.
"Oh, he'd have to find his feet some time," was the rejoinder. "He
seems to have done it tolerably well too, for a young beginner."
A week or two went by, which Dick Selmes divided about equally between
hunting bush-buck and rendering Greenoak's life a burden to him as to
whether the head was being sufficiently cured, or whether it was quite
safely out of the way of dogs or other destroyers and so forth. One
morning that long-suffering individual remarked:
"We'll move on to-morrow, Dick."
"Well yes, I suppose it's about time. But--where?"
"Why, there's an old friend of mine named Hesketh who's just written me
to bring you along. His farm's up in the Rooi Ruggensbergen. Man, but
it's wild there I can tell you."
"All the better. What does the said Hesketh consist of?"
"Himself. He's a primitive old customer, and you'll have to rough it
there. I warn you of that."
"The shoot good?"
"It just is."
"Hurrah then!" cried Dick. "I'm on."
"Well, we'll go back to the Bay, and pick up a Cape cart--it'll always
sell again when we've done with it--and some more ammunition. Another
horse, too, won't hurt. These two we got from Simcox are all right, but
you've already shown a tendency to ride yours to death. A fellow who's
as keen as you are can't go on for ever pushing the same horse over all
sorts of ground from sunrise to sunset."
"Good--and good again!" assented Dick.
The farewell he took of his entertainers was a very cordial one. Their
hospitality had been as genuine as it was unceremonious. He had shared
their life as one of themselves, and if the experience was totally
different to any former one, why he had thoroughly enjoyed it, and said
so, in no half-hearted way. Further, he had readily promised to repeat
it on his way homeward.
"That's a thoroughly nice young chap," pronounced Simcox, decisively, as
their late guests turned for a final wave of the hand before
disappearing from view down the kloof. "Not an atom of `side,' takes us
as he finds us, and no nonsense about him. I hope he'll look in again,
on his way back."
And Simcox's women-kind quite enthusiastically agreed with Simcox.