Harley Greenoak for once in his life had committed an error of judgment.
He had quite reckoned on the possibility of being followed, even as he
knew that every step of his way had been dogged from the moment he had
left the settlement. But the possibility of a formidable and cleverly
devised ambush being prepared for him in front, he had somehow or other
quite overlooked. So when he turned over his horse to Mantisa with
instructions to take it to a point agreed upon and await him there, he
was, of course, in complete ignorance of the trap into which his
auxiliary was about to fall. Even then, if Mantisa had carried out his
instructions to the letter, instead of taking a way of his own because
it was a little shorter, he need not have fallen into the trap at all.
Greenoak's object in getting rid of his horse for a time was that he was
going into exceedingly broken and rugged country, in parts of which he
could not ride at all. A led horse would be a serious impediment,
hampering him at every step, to say nothing of the repeated plungings
and stumblings of the animal among the rocks and stones being nearly as
good as a bugle for all purposes of telling undesirable ears near and
far that he was there. Again, it might neigh on occasion, which would
serve the same purpose.
Now he struck off at a tangent from his former line of route, and, after
some hours of steady walking, got among the broken precipitous ground
which overhung the river. Rising from far beneath, he could hear its
swirl and murmur. Further down he struck, his labours doubled by his
carefulness to avoid any and every sound. For sound travels far on a
still night, more especially on a river bank.
He looked about for a place wherein to ensconce himself so that he could
see without being seen, and soon found one that answered the purpose so
exactly that it might have been made to order. It was a depression
overhung by a great rock, and, lying snugly, with his gaze just over the
tip of a hollow, he could command a full view of the river drift, while
himself invisible from above.
And now it was as well he had had that long sleep in Matamzima's hut,
for the very restfulness of this place after hours of hard walking
rendered even his iron frame lax to the point of drowsiness. But it was
not far to dawn now.
The stillness was absolute, hardly the cry of bird or beast awoke to
break it. The loom of the Kei hills was well-nigh invisible against the
stars, so dark had become this darkest hour before the dawn. Then to
Harley Greenoak's ears came a far-away sound, faint but unmistakable.
It was the sound of voices, of native voices, singing. From far down on
the plains beyond the river it came, and it was drawing nearer and
nearer.
The watcher's nerves thrilled to the sound. The voices were pitched
low; purposely so he knew, none better. Knew also that they proceeded
from a moving mass of men. Would the dawn never come?
It would, and it did. The world had grown perceptibly lighter. The
loom of the hills was now distinct, but the depth of the plain was in
darkness. Still the moving sound drew nearer, and now in the tense
stillness the listener could even distinguish the tenour of the words.
It was a song of war.
None but a large and strongly armed band would have ventured thus to
advertise its presence. The inference was clear. The body now marching
from the Gcaleka country was the expected incursion. If he had been in
any doubt before, Harley Greenoak had now already decided to himself
that his information was accurate.
The darkness faded still more, and now upon the fast lightening plain he
was able to make out the moving mass. Lighter still! Hundreds of armed
savages were advancing to the drift. He could make out detail, and took
in the fact that many of them had guns, and now even that indescribable
rattle of assegai hafts--curiously unlike any other sound--was borne
upward to his ears. But the identity of any in the band he could not
arrive at.
The war-song had ceased. They descended to the drift in silence, and
without a moment's hesitation waded into the swirling current, their
weapons held high above their heads. This was breast deep, and as they
gained the middle of the stream many linked hands in order to steady
themselves against its strength. More than once a deep-toned, smothered
laugh and a splash told that an odd warrior here and there had slipped
and got a ducking. Finally, the last had disappeared. He could not see
them land, his own side of the river being shut from view by the
tree-tops; but he knew exactly where they would land, and the line they
would take for Matanzima's kraal. Harley Greenoak's work here was done.
The next phase of it was that of warning. Listening intently, he left
his hiding-place. There was no sound of life along the river bank, the
invading party had gone in an almost contrary direction. He struck into
an old path, which followed the downward course of the river, and for
some distance was able to travel with ease and rapidity. Then this
ceased, giving way to tumbled and broken rocks, every here and there
heavily overgrown with trailers. Above, on one side great rugged
krantzes walled him in. Not for many miles further down could he strike
the open country again. Greenoak had never been along this river bank
before, but his experienced eyes took in the hang of it completely.
Suddenly he stopped dead short, listening intently. In front--and not
very far in front--the sound of deep-toned voices. In a moment he had
slipped into a cleft between two rocks, and had drawn the trailers over
him; and it seemed hardly a moment more when a number of fully armed
Kafirs appeared, moving leisurely along the way he had come, but taking
the upward course of the bank. But for their utter unguardedness, they
would have met him face to face. As it was, they passed so near as
almost to brush the trailers which afforded him such precarious
concealment. He held his very breath, so near were they.
They were talking at random, and a good deal all at once--and something
was said about a roast, and how good it was, and the speakers passed on
while others succeeded, talking about nothing in particular. But Harley
Greenoak, through the interstices, recognised several of them, among
others, Mafutana and Sikonile, whose son he had shot. Then he knew that
this hiding-place had received him not a moment too soon.
The last of the Kafirs had gone by, but Greenoak was in no hairy to
move. When, finally, he decided that it was time to do so, the sun was
already flaming up from beyond the Kei hills, and the birds were
breaking into song, twittering and calling from the cool shade of
krantzes, or balancing on twig and spray, joyous, perky, in the glow of
the new-born day.
Suddenly he halted. No sight, no sound, had thus pulled him up, but--an
odour. For there came to his nostrils a strong smell as of cooking, and
it came from in front. He remembered how some of the Kafirs had been
talking about a "roast." Of course, he was coming to where they had
spent the night, and had feasted--probably upon stolen stock. Well, he
would investigate. But--what if there should be others there?
Cautiously he advanced, weapons ready, peering before him, listening,
the strange odour stronger with every step, and he found himself hoping
they might have left some of their repast, for he could do with a broil
himself. And then--
Not altogether unfamiliar with scenes of horrific ghastliness himself,
at what he now saw, peering cautiously over a great rock, Harley
Greenoak felt his blood run cold and his flesh creep.
Beneath lay a hollow, overhung by the beetling cliff. The place was
evidently the resort of a gang of cattle stealers, for the ground was
thickly strewn with the skulls and bones of cattle and sheep, but,
needless to say, the sight of these was not what had perturbed him.
In the centre of the place, slung to a thick, stout pole whose ends
rested on two rocks, was a human figure--what was left of one, that is.
It hung horizontally, bound to the pole by wrists and ankles, back
downwards, forming a bow, and underneath were the still smouldering
ashes of a large fire. The head hung down and the wretched creature was
quite dead, but the middle of the body, upon which the fire had played,
presented a sight that was indescribably horrible.
This, then, was the "roast" to which those human fiends had made
allusion, decided Greenoak; but why should the poor wretch have incurred
such devilish vengeance, for the body was that of a native, not that of
a white man? Mastering his horror and disgust, Greenoak stepped quickly
forward to investigate--and then the mystery stood explained. In the
agonised, drawn face of the dead man he recognised that of Mantisa, the
Police detective.
Like light the truth was borne in upon his brain. He pieced together
everything. The presence of Mafutana and Sikonile with the party
supplied the link. They had been lying in wait for himself, and in the
darkness had pounced upon Mantisa in mistake for himself, nor could it
have been long after the former had gone on with the horse. Yet why
should they have brought the poor wretch here to put him to such a
ghastly death? An assegai or two would have answered all purposes there
on the spot. And then a conviction of the real truth came home to
Harley Greenoak. They had tortured their prisoner to force him to
reveal his own whereabouts, and Mantisa had been unable or unwilling to
do so. A great wave of pity and admiration swept through Greenoak's
heart as he gazed upon the miserable mangled remains.
"Poor, plucky devil!" he said to himself as he turned away, for the
nature of the ground precluded any kind of attempt at burial. "Poor,
plucky, heroic devil! Well, he's gone aloft, that's certain, if any one
ever did get there, black or white."
As he left the place of horror, he wondered what had become of his
horse. Had it been captured too? But as against this, he recalled the
fact that it was not in the possession of the perpetrators of this
atrocity what time they passed his hiding-place. Well, he supposed he
must give it up as lost, but coming at this juncture the loss was
serious, for he had intended making a quick round in order to warn as
many of the settlers as he could reach.
An hour of further travelling and the bush line would draw to an end in
favour of more open country above. Just before reaching this, however,
a sound reached him. It was the quick whinny of a horse, the shaking of
the saddle-flaps, then a neigh. Of course, to one of Greenoak's rapid
powers of deduction this meant a riderless horse. What if it was his--
what if it had broken away, while the savages were occupied with their
prisoner? A few more minutes and he came in sight of the animal, and--
it _was_ his.
But, holding the end of the bridle-rein, was a man, a native--a
thick-set, ugly, scrabbly bearded savage, and armed. Greenoak's gun was
up in a moment, covering the fellow.
But somehow or other, it did not seem to produce the effect he had
expected. The ugly face split into a white stripe of grin, and a voice
said in excellent English--
"Not shoot, Mr Greenoak. I John Voss."
Well might Greenoak start. This, then, was the fellow who had been
stealthily following him. The make-up was perfect. It happened that
normally John Voss was a singularly neat and smart-looking native, with
an intelligent face and, for a native, a very respectable beard, of
which he was not a little proud. The sacrifice of this latter alone, in
order to transform himself into an evil-looking, squalid savage, argued
a whole-hearted zeal deserving of recognition, and he had certainly
succeeded, for himself, to a dangerous degree at that moment.
"Well, John, you've had a narrow escape," said Greenoak. "But that I
was afraid the horse would have schreked at the shot and cleared, you'd
have been down with a bullet through you at this moment, I believe. Now
let's hear all about it."
The other told him--how he had followed Mantisa, and witnessed his
capture; how in the excitement of that event he had mingled with the
Kafirs in the darkness, and had ridden away upon the horse when their
attention was more fully occupied, intending to wait for its owner at
the point where he judged the latter would reappear. Then Greenoak told
him of the crossing from Gcalekaland, and the barbarous vengeance which
had been taken upon poor Mantisa. It happened that John Voss had not
been into the location at all, so had been powerless to warn either of
the ambush laid, for the simple reason that he knew nothing of it.
And as they travelled, these two laid their plans as to how best warn
the neighbourhood.