It was lunch time at Peters' prospecting camp, and Peters, seated on a
pile of old sacks, was busy opening a bully-beef tin. Having extracted
its indifferently appetising contents, by dint of shaking out the same
on to an enamelled metal plate, he chucked the empty tin away over his
shoulder, thus mechanically adding another `brick' to a sort of
crescent-shaped miniature wall, some ten feet behind, which had been
formed gradually out of exactly similar tins, and by a similar
mechanical process. Three native `boys,' squatted at a respectful
distance, were puffing at their pipes and conversing in a drowsy hum,
the burden of their debate being as to whose turn it might be to consume
such remnants of the repast as their master might leave: such being, of
course, a thing apart from, and outside of, their regular rations.
In the forefront was a windlass and a vast pile of earth and stones, for
Peters was sinking a shaft. Two hastily run-up huts served to house the
said boys, between which stood a Scotch cart, covered with tarpaulin.
Peters himself slept at Lamont's, on whose farm these mining operations
were being conducted. In the ultimate success of these Peters had
immense faith. "We'll make another Sheba Reef out of this yet, Lamont,"
he was wont to declare. "This place has gold on it, and plenty, if we
only sink deep enough. You'll see it has." To which Lamont would reply
that he only hoped it might, but that he didn't for a moment believe it
would.
Who Peters was, or where he had come from, nobody knew. He was a
prospector, and had never been known as anything else. Some opined that
he had at one time been a sailor, and there were certain grounds for
believing this, in that he would, when off his guard, betray an
acquaintance both extensive and accurate with the technique of the sea.
Those who tried to draw him got no further. He never gave the idea of
being particularly anxious to conceal anything: simply he never talked
about himself. It was puzzling, but--there it remained.
Then certain inquisitive souls conceived the inspiration of getting him
to talk in his cups. But the drawback to the carrying of it out lay in
the fact that Peters never was in his cups. He could drink the whole
lot of them under the table, if put to it; and indeed did so, on more
than one occasion, sitting there smiling all the time, as they
reproachfully put it. Oh, he was a hard nail!
He was good-nature itself, as long as no one tried to take advantage of
it. When they did, then let them look out. His prime detestation was
`side,' as more than one young new arrival from England in the early
days discovered to his own amazement and discomfiture. His prime
predilection was Lamont, of whom, their mutual acquaintances were wont
to pronounce, he made a little tin god on wheels. Yet no two men could,
in character, be more utterly dissimilar.
Their friendship dated from the war of occupation, in which they had
both served. During the historic retreat on the Shangani, Lamont had
saved his life, and that under circumstances demanding an intrepidity
bordering on foolhardiness. Wounded and incapacitated, he had dropped
behind unnoticed what time the Matabele were pressing the sorely
harassed column, and Lamont had dashed back to his rescue when his
falling into the hands of the savages was but a question of moments--
already indeed had he placed his pistol to his head rather than be thus
captured. This was the incident he had been trying to relate to Ancram,
when Lamont had twice cut him short with what the guest had deemed
brusque and unnecessary rudeness.
Having finished his meal Peters lighted a digestive pipe, and sent his
plate skimming away in the direction of the boys, who immediately
pounced upon the scraps; for there is never a moment in life when a
native is not ready to feed, and nothing eatable that he will refuse to
feed on--except fish.
"Hey, Malvani?" he called.
"_Nkose_!" And one of the boys came trotting up.
"What of Inyovu? Will he come back, do you think?"
"_Ou nkose_!" said the fellow with a half grin. "Who may say? He is
Matabele. We are not."
"Well, get to work again."
"_Nkose_."
Peters sat a little longer thinking--and the subject of his thoughts was
the man whose life he had saved--to wit Ancram.
"I don't like the cuss," he said to himself. "Wish I'd left him where
he was--no--I don't exactly that--still, I wish he'd move on. He's an
ungrateful dog, anyhow."
The noonday air was sensuous and drowsy. Even the screech of the
crickets was so unintermittent as to form part of the prevailing
stillness. Peters began to nod.
"_Nkose_!"
The salutation was sulky rather than hearty. Peters started wide awake
again, to behold his missing boy, Inyovu.
The latter was a young Matabele, tall and slight, and clad in nothing
but an old shirt and a skin _mutya_. But his face was the face of a
truculent savage--the face of one who would have been far more in his
element as a unit in some marauding expedition sent forth by Lobengula
in the good old times, than serving in the peaceful avocation of mine
boy to a white prospector.
"I see you, Inyovu," returned Peters, speaking fluently in the
Sindabele. "But I have not seen you for half a day when I should have
seen you working." The point of which satire was that the fellow had
taken French leave since the night before.
"_Au_!" he replied, half defiantly. "I have been to see my chief."
"Been to see your chief--_impela_! Who is your chief, Inyovu? The man
who pays you or the man who does not?"
Natives are susceptible to ridicule, and Peters had a satirical way with
him which lay rather in the tone than in the words used. The three
Makalaka boys in the background sniggered, and this acted as a whip to
the Matabele.
"My chief?" he blared. "My chief? _Whau, Mlungu_! Zwabeka is my
chief."
The tone apart, to address his master as _Umlungu_--meaning simply
`white man'--was to invite--well, a breach of the peace. But Peters
kept his temper.
"Then--O great chief Inyovu," he said, still more cuttingly, "in that
case it might be as well to return to thy chief, Zwabeka. I have no use
at all for servants who own two chiefs. No. No use."
"_Xi_!"
At the utterance of this contemptuous `click' Peters did not keep his
temper. His right fist shot forth with lightning-like suddenness and
celerity, catching its imprudent utterer bang on the nose. He,
staggering back, seized a pick-handle--an uncommonly awkward weapon, by
the way--and, uttering a savage snarl, came for his smiter. The while
the three Makalaka boys, in huge if secret delight, stood by to watch
the fun.
And they got it--plenty of it. Peters was far too old a campaigner to
be taken at any such disadvantage. He was upon the young savage in a
flash, had him by the throat with one hand, and the pick-handle with the
other, just as swiftly. Inyovu seeing the game was up wrenched himself
free, and turned to run, leaving the pick-handle with the enemy. Alack
and alas! The mouth of the shaft was immediately behind him, and,
losing his footing on some loose stones, he plunged in and disappeared
from view. Then Peters threw back his head and roared with laughter.
So too did the Makalakas. In fact their paroxysms seemed to threaten
ultimate dissolution, as they twisted and squirmed and hugged themselves
in their mirth.
"_Woza_! We must get him out!" he cried at last. The shaft was no
great depth as yet, luckily for Inyovu. Moreover, the bucket for
hauling up the dirt was down there, and a spasmodic quiver of the rope
showed that the ill-advised one was already climbing up, even if he had
not arrested his fall by seizing the rope and holding on. Then, by
their master's orders, the boys manned the windlass, though so weakened
by their recurring laughter they could hardly turn the handle, indeed
were in danger of letting go every minute. At last the unfortunate
one's head rose above the mouth of the hole, and in a moment more he was
standing glaring at his master with sulky apprehension.
But Peters had enjoyed a good laugh, and all his anger had vanished.
"Now, Inyovu," he said cheerily, "get to work again."
And Inyovu did.
Peace having been restored, the usual labour proceeded. Suddenly
Peters' horse, which was knee-haltered among the bushes hard by, began
to whinny, then to neigh. That meant the proximity of another horse,
and a minute or two later Lamont rode up alone.
"Hallo, Peters! Nothing to make us millionaires to-day? What?" he sung
out. "No sign of the stuff?"
"Oh, that'll come. You've got the grin now, but we'll both have it--in
the right direction too--when this bit of bush-veldt's humming with
battery stamps and you and I are boss directors of the new fraud,"
answered Peters equably. They were to be joint partners in the
results--if any--of Peters' prospecting, at any rate while such was
carried on upon Lamont's farm.
"`Hope springs eternal...' or there'd be no prospectors," laughed the
latter as he dismounted from his horse. "See here, Peters. I wish
you'd left our desirable guest where he was, or taken him away somewhere
else--anything rather than bring him here."
"What could I do, Lamont?" was the deprecating reply. "He said he was a
pal of yours, and had come up-country on purpose to find you."
"As for the first, he lied. I hardly knew the fellow, and what little I
saw of him I disliked. For the second, I've no doubt he did. No. You
brought him, and you'll have to take him away."
"Well, I'll try and think out a plan."
"If you don't, one of two things will happen. Either he'll take over
the whole show or I shall be indicted for murder."
"Couldn't we set up a sort of Matabele rising scare, and rush him off to
Gandela?" said Peters, brightening up. "I've a notion he isn't brimming
over with eagerness for a fight."
"The worst of setting up scares is that they're apt to travel farther
than you mean them to, especially just now when that sort of scare may
any moment become grim reality. No, I'm afraid that plan won't do."
"Isn't there anyone you could pass him on to? Why not give him an
introduction to Christian Sybrandt, and fire him off to Buluwayo?"
"Because I wouldn't give him an introduction to anybody--not on any
account. See here, Peters. I don't like the fellow--never did, and he
knows it too. But he's going to exploit me all he knows how, and--that
won't be far. You remember that--er--that rotten affair I told you
about--you know, the thing that had to do with my coming out here again
when I did? Well, this fellow Ancram was there at the time. Helped to
hoot me down, you understand."
"Did he? The rotten, infernal swine! If I had known half that perhaps
I would have left him for jackal's meat in the mopani before I moved
finger, let alone touched trigger, to get him out," said Peters
savagely. "By the Lord! I wonder you let him set foot inside the door
after that."
"What could one do? You can't turn a fellow away from your door, in
this country, in a state of practical destitution,--for that's what
being without a horse amounts to. I wish you could have saved his
horse, Peters. And now he's been here ten days, and seems to think he
owns the whole show. What do you think he's been up to this morning?"
"What?"
"Why I sent him out to shoot birds, or anything he darn chose, along the
river bank--anything to get rid of him. I sent Zingela with him to take
care of him, and carry the birds. Blest if he didn't start pounding
Zingela."
Peters whistled.
"That's pretty thick," he said.
"Thick! I should think so. Swore the boy had cheeked him, and he hated
niggers, and so forth. Coming on to another man's place--without an
invite, mind you--and then sailing in to bash his boys. Eh?"
"Yes. But had Zingela cheeked him?"
"Small wonder if he had. But all I could get out of the boy was that
Ancram abused him because he couldn't find a guinea-fowl that had run.
He owned to having answered he wasn't a dog. Then Ancram let into him.
I'm not a good-tempered chap, Peters, and there'll be a most unholy row
soon. What's to be done?"
"I have it," cried Peters, his whimsical face puckering all over with
glee. "I have it. You know how skeery he looked when we were telling
him about the possibility of a rising. Well then, let's cram him up
that the Matabele are awful vindictive devils, and Zingela will never
rest till he has his blood. How's that?"
"Well, that's an idea."
"Rather. He'll wilt at the notion of a bloodthirsty savage, always
looking out for his chance, day and night--especially the night, mind--
of getting an assegai into him. I believe that'll do the trick. What?"
"I shouldn't wonder. By Jove, Peters, you're a genius. Well, you work
it. If we both do, it'll look suspicious."
"Right! I will. Still the fellow can be amusing at times. I'll never
forget that first time we introduced ourselves. `I'm Peters,
prospector,' says I. `And I'm Ancram, prospectless,' says he, without a
moment's thought."
And Peters went off into a roar over the recollection.