Sunrise. A long green valley bounded by pleasant, round-topped,
bush-clad hills. The slopes are dotted with kraals, the blue wood-smoke
curling aloft from the yellow thatch of many a beehive-shaped hut, the
red-ochred forms of the inhabitants moving about--early as it is--making
a not unpleasing contrast to the eye against the bright green of the
pastures, though by no means pleasing to another sense, at far closer
quarters. But the thorn enclosures contain no cattle, although it is
milking-time, nor do any stand around outside, only a few sheep and
goats. This is strange.
Harley Greenoak, pacing his horse up the valley, noted the fact, and--
read it at its real meaning. And its real meaning did not augur well
either for the situation or for his self-imposed mission by which he had
hoped to improve the latter. But little time was to be his for tranquil
reflection, for there was a savage rush of dogs from two of the clusters
of huts he was passing at a hundred yards or so, and a tumultuous
snapping and snarling round his horse's heels. It was followed
immediately by a scarcely less tumultuous irruption of the inhabitants.
These poured forward, vociferating volubly. All had sticks, and a
goodly proportion carried assegais. Their demeanour was not friendly.
But the foremost pulled up short, then the rest. The rush subsided into
a walk.
"_Whau_! It is Kulondeka!"
No weapon had been presented, or even significantly handled. No change
had come over the imperturbability of the horseman. It was only the
name, the mesmerism, so to say, of the personality. That was all.
"I see you," was the answer. "But I did not come to see _you_." And
the speaker rode unconcernedly on.
The crowd, who had now stoned and beaten off the dogs, fell in behind,
talking in an undertone among itself. From every additional kraal
passed, others came forth to swell it, at first aggressively hostile in
attitude, then more subdued, but always sullen. In fact, Greenoak
remarked that the prevailing attitude was that of sullenness.
"The grass is green and abundant. There should be good pasture for the
cattle here now," he remarked over his shoulder to the foremost. "There
will be plenty of fatness and milk this season."
A deep-toned murmur, in which he was quick to detect a covert sneer,
greeted his words.
"_Ewa_--_Ewa_! Plenty of fatness this season, Kulondeka," answered
several voices. And the same unmistakable sneer underlay the words.
"Turn back, Kulondeka," now said one, a man who seemed to be in some
authority, as he came up along side of the horseman. "We do not want
any white people about here now. The chief is tired of them."
"The chief! But it is not the chief I am going to see, Mafutana. It is
his son."
"But what if he is not here?" said the Kafir, sullenly.
"But what if he is?" returned Greenoak, composedly. "I know my way. I
have no need of these here"--with a wave of the hand towards those who
were following. "They can go home."
A hoarse jeer among the crowd greeted the words, but the said crowd
showed not the slightest sign of complying with the speaker's wish.
More than one, gripping the long, tapering assegai, was thinking what a
tempting target was offered by the back of this unmoved white man,
riding there before them as though his life hung upon something stronger
than a not very secure rope. So the strange procession passed on.
The newly risen sun was flaming above the Kei hills. The blue sky was
without a cloud. The morning air, not yet unpleasantly warm, was clear
and invigorating. The fair, rolling pastures were green and promising,
and altogether the whole scene should have been one of pastoral peace.
But it was the peace of the slumbering volcano, to-day stillness,
to-morrow red ruin, and none knew this better than Harley Greenoak. He
knew why there was no cattle anywhere in sight.
Now he had reached a kraal at the head of the valley, one in no wise
differing in appearance from any of the others he had passed. Here he
dismounted, but before he could make an inquiry of the inhabitants--the
crowd following him, by the way, having now halted at a respectful
distance--an interruption occurred--startling, unexpected.
A large body of Kafirs came pouring over the ridge. They were in full
war-array--cow-tail tufts, flapping monkey-skins, long crane feathers
flowing back from the head, jackals' teeth necklaces--in short, every
conceivable variety of wild and fantastic adornment which could lend to
the sinuous clay-smeared forms a wholly terrific appearance. And indeed
such was the effect, as with a roar like that of a beast they rushed
down upon Harley Greenoak.
He, for his part, stood unmoved; though even to one of his iron
resolution the array of excited faces and gleaming eyeballs, and
threatening assegais, as the savages crowded up to him, might well have
proved momentarily unnerving. Was this the projected Gcaleka raid, he
wondered, and in a flash he decided that it was not. It was a body of
young men who had spent the night war-dancing, with its concomitant of
beef and beer feasting, hard by; and, now excited by such stimulant,
mental and physical, was prepared for anything.
They made mock thrusts at him with their assegais--not too near,
however. Others were leaping into the air, singing, or reciting all the
deeds they were about to do.
"The time of the _Abelungu_ has come!" cried one, if possible more
truculent and demoniacal-looking than his fellows. "_Whau_! but we will
drive them all into the sea, and take their wives for our wives. Have
you a wife, Kulondeka? But no. She would be too old. She, and others
like her, would do to hoe our corn lands. Or--"
And the speaker made a quick, downward slash with his assegai that left
room for no explanation in mere words.
Greenoak listened to all this--and more--in silent contempt. He was
getting rather tired of it, and expected that they would be getting the
same directly, and would go. But the most truculent of them, a huge,
red-smeared brute of well-nigh gigantic proportions, lunged forward and
snatched hold of the double gun which he held in his left hand,
attempting with a quick powerful jerk to wrest it away.
He did not succeed. In a twinkling the muzzle of Whites. Greenoak's
heavy revolver caught him fair and square between the eyes, with such
force that the impact alone was almost enough to brain him, apart from
the roar of the detonation which immediately followed. The huge
barbarian, his head blown to atoms, crashed to the ground like a felled
tree.
For a moment there was a tense and deathly silence. Greenoak, still
holding the pistol pointed, had taken a couple of paces backward. His
grey eyes were gleaming like steel, and his whole aspect was cool and
dangerous. The time for indifference was past, he had decided; that for
action had come; and the man who had ventured to lay a hand on him had
paid for his daring with his life. At that moment he himself hardly
expected to escape with his, but it would go terribly hard with several,
before, in their weight of numbers, they should succeed in taking it.
Now, he wasted no word. His silence, the lightning-like promptitude
with which he had acted, and with which he would be ready to act again,
as they well knew, were more awe-inspiring than mere verbal warning.
And then there was the prestige of his personality.
Upon the silence broke forth a deep-toned, vengeful growl that was
ominous. Then it suddenly died down. A voice behind him spoke.
"It is Kulondeka I see."
"It is," answered Greenoak, not turning his head. "And I think, son of
the Great Chief, that these had better go home. It is not a healthy
amusement for any man to try and snatch my gun out of my hand."
At these words, cool and contemptuous, a new outburst of wrath went up,
and the excited savages began to crowd up nearer, clamouring that
Kulondeka should be given up to their vengeance. Some in the background
raised the war-cry. It was taken up, and, gathering volume, sounded
back from the hills, whence now other bands were hurrying to the scene.
The chief's son stepped to the side of Harley Greenoak and threw an arm
around his shoulders.
"See. We are brothers," he said. "The Great Chief is the father of
both."
Again there was a silence, broken immediately by a voice.
"_Au_! The son of the Great Chief is bewitched. This Kulondeka is the
eyes and ears of the whites--here, everywhere. How then can he, too, be
the son of the Great Chief?" And a fresh outburst greeted the words.
Greenoak noticed that this was the man who had tried to turn him back.
He had thrust himself forward, and being a headman of some standing, and
elderly, he might prove dangerous in the scale. And his leanings were
hostile.
Matanzima drew himself up. It was time to assert his dignity, and he
had plenty of it. Seen outwardly now, he was a lithe, straight,
well-set-up savage, with clear eyes and a decidedly pleasing face. He
wore an ample kaross of leopard skin, flung loosely around him, and but
for this, and a massive ivory armlet, displayed no adornment whatever.
Now he turned his eyes sternly upon the assembled rout, sweeping it
steadily from end to end with his glance.
"Have I no men?" he said, in slow, incisive tones. "Have I no men?
Then who are these? Are they Mafutana's dogs, or are they mine? _Hau_!
There are dogs who bark too loud, but when it comes to biting slink
away with their tails down. How is it with these? I lead not such dogs
to war."
The clamourers paused, shamefaced. Matanzima was immensely popular with
the younger men; in fact, was regarded as the leader and hope of the
war-party. They dared not actively oppose him. They knew, too, that
but for this white man, for whose blood they were thirsting, he would
never have been here to lead them. The clamour seemed to be dying out.
"What of Nzinto yonder, son of the Great Chief?" cried a voice. "He is
the son of my father, and lo!--he lies dead."
"M-m!" The deep-chested murmur from the crowd backed the words. All
eyes were bent eagerly upon Matanzima.
"Why, as to that," said the latter, "you have heard Kulondeka say that
it is not healthy to try and snatch a gun from his hand. Nzinto tried
to, and--"
"Yet it shall be blood for blood, son of Sandili," was the answer, "for
he was my brother."
"Kulondeka is _my_ brother," returned Matanzima. "Or, I should say, my
father, for what am I but a boy beside him? Yet no blood for blood
shall it be here. If you meet in battle--well and good, the best
warrior is he who wins. Now we have talked long enough. _I_ think--too
long."
And linking his arm within that of Greenoak, he drew him towards the hut
from which he himself had just emerged, at the same time making a sign
to one of his own immediate attendants to take charge of the horse,
which, its first uneasiness over, was placidly cropping the grass, its
bridle trailing on the ground.