"Well, good-bye, Lyall. Next time you want to do another cattle deal
send me word. Only do it before the rinderpest has swept me clean. So
long."
And Lamont, swinging himself into his saddle, rode away from Lyall's
store, quite content with the price he had obtained from that worthy for
a dozen young oxen, which he had delivered the day before. Moreover, he
could not sufficiently congratulate himself that when he arrived home
that evening he would not find Ancram.
He chuckled to himself as he thought how they had got rid of that
extremely unwelcome guest. When Ancram had returned from his trip with
Driffield, more jaunty than ever, Peters began to play his part,
launching forth into awful and blood-curdling instances of the
vindictiveness of the Matabele, and what a mistake it was that Ancram
should have done anything to incur a feud that might extend through any
amount of relationships. Thoroughly yet deftly did he rub it in, and
soon Ancram's nervousness reached such a pitch that he had come to
regard poor Zingela--who had no more idea of cutting the strange
Makiwa's throat than he had of cutting his own--as a perfectly ferocious
monster, ever on the watch for an opportunity of having his blood.
"You'll be able to amuse yourself alone for a few days, Ancram," Lamont
had said one morning when the requisite stage of scare had been reached.
"Peters and I have got to be away, but we'll be back in a week at the
outside."
Ancram's look of blank dismay was something to behold. Couldn't he
come, too? he asked. No, he couldn't, because there was no spare horse
that was in condition for the journey.
"But," added Lamont consolingly, "you'll be all right here. Zingela
will look after you and show you where to find game, and so on."
Would he indeed? thought Ancram to himself. Not if he knew it. He
supposed it was with a purpose that Lamont proposed to leave him alone
with this ferocious savage, to be butchered by him and his relatives--
Peters had spread it on thick--but that purpose he intended to defeat.
Yes, that was it. He, Ancram, was the only man in the country who knew
about the Courtland affair, and of course Lamont wanted to get rid of
him at all costs, now that there was another girl in the case.
"Well, old chap," he had answered, "I think I won't stop on. The fact
is I get beastly bored all by myself, and I think you said there was a
hotel in Gandela."
"Yes. It's not first-rate, but Foster's a very decent fellow. If you
tell him you've been stopping with me he'll do his best for you," Lamont
had replied.
"But I don't know anyone there."
"You'll very soon get to. There are some very good fellows in Gandela--
only don't go on the wait-to-be-introduced tack."
Mightily did Lamont chuckle to himself over this reminiscence as he rode
along, and his mirth was quite undashed by the consciousness that Ancram
bore him no goodwill--and the certainty that he would injure him if he
could. For this, however, he cared nothing. The Courtland story might
leak out and welcome. There was no one whose opinion he valued
sufficiently for it to matter. Wait. Was there not? No. There was no
one.
His way lay over undulating mimosa-studded ground, beautiful but for a
parched and burnt-up look, due to the prolonged drought; passing now and
again a native kraal, heavily stockaded with mopani poles and thorn
boughs, for lions were not altogether unknown in that part, as we have
seen. A brief off-saddle for lunch, and to cool his horse's back, and
he took the track again.
Lamont was well mounted, and his steed stepped forth at a long, swift,
easy walk. In the afternoon heat he became drowsy, and was soon
nodding. The art of sleeping on horseback is one that can be acquired
by pressure of circumstances, and if the animal is steady in its paces,
and knows its way, why, then, there is no further difficulty--and of
this one both these conditions held good. Suddenly a loud whinny on its
part started the rider bolt awake again.
They were now travelling down a path skirting a range of stony hills.
Below, and in front at no great distance, was another horseman
proceeding in the same direction. It took but one moment to determine
him a white man, and not many more to overhaul him and range up
alongside. The stranger was dressed in serviceable khaki and a
sun-helmet, all of which was in keeping with the bronzed face and short
black beard, but not altogether with the round clerical collar.
Catching the sound of hoofs behind, he reined in and turned, and Lamont
recognised him as Father Mathias, one of the priests attached to the
Buluwayo Mission.
"Good evening, Father," he called out, as he came up. "Rather far
afield, aren't you? This is an unexpected pleasure. I hope we are
travelling the same way, because I'm already a good bit sick of my own
company."
"Mr Lamont, is it not?" said the priest, speaking with a foreign
accent. "Ah yes. We met in Gandela, did we not? I too--I shall be
very glad of company."
They rode along, chatting. The while, Lamont was eyeing the other's
horse, a sorry-looking beast at best, and, besides its rider, was loaded
up with a fair amount of luggage, in the shape of a large rolled valise
across the horn of the saddle and a couple of well filled-out
saddle-bags on each side.
"You'd better let me help you with some of that load," he said at last.
"In fact we'll transfer the lot. My horse is as fresh as paint, and
won't feel it."
"Oh, I could not think of letting you do that, Mr Lamont. A few pounds
more or less make no great difference."
"Don't they? I don't know if you have ever walked with a knapsack,
Father, but I have--and it's just that very pound or so extra that makes
all the difference in the world. Are you going to ride that horse all
the way to Buluwayo?"
"Yes. But I shall have a day's rest at Skrine's Store, where I have to
look after some of our people."
"Thirty-five miles. You will hardly get him there--certainly not
to-night. You had better come home with me."
The other feared that this was impossible, as, after they had journeyed
together up to a certain point, it would be right in the contrary
direction. But he ceased to combat Lamont's offer to relieve him of
some of the load.
"You don't travel light, Father," laughed Lamont, as he finished
strapping the valise across his own saddle.
"But this is not my own luggage. I have been on a round of visitation,
and wherever I find some of our people they are glad of the opportunity
to hear Mass. It is the ornaments required for the Mass that are in
these saddle-bags."
"Oh, I understand now," said Lamont. "I thought it was camping outfit.
Well, that is shepherding the flock and no mistake--and that over a
pretty wide run."
"That is what we are here for, Mr Lamont. It is possible we may miss
some, but we try not to."
"I'm sure you do," assented Lamont heartily. "Why, you are proverbial
in this country as models of energy."
"That is pleasant to know. But, speaking personally, I like the life.
I am strong, and it does me no harm."
They chatted of other things and everything. The priest was a cultured
man, and as they covered mile after mile of hot, steamy Matabeleland,
both he and his companion hardly noticed it, for they were back in the
various centres of artistic Europe, discussing its treasures with
eagerness and appreciation. They off-saddled for half an hour, then on
again.
"I think we are getting near where my road turns off," said Father
Mathias at last. "But, Mr Lamont, I am so glad we have been able to
travel together. I have not noticed the distance at all."
Lamont cordially replied that the same held good of himself. Then,
looking quickly up--
"We are going to have a change, and if it means rain--why then, hooray!
Otherwise I don't like the look of it ahead--no, not at all."
In their conversation as they rode along they had, as we have said, lost
sight of outside features. Now a deep, low growl of thunder recalled
such. Over the range of hills they were skirting peered a ridge of
black cloud, mounting higher and higher to the zenith in a huge solid
pillar, spreading in black masses, lighted fitfully with the gleam of
quickly successive flashes. The sun had already gone down.
"We are in for it," said Lamont, looking up. "We shall get an exemplary
ducking, unless--but then you might not care about that--we were to take
shelter in Zwabeka's kraal. It's only just the other side of that bend
in front."
"Let us do that," said the priest. "Zwabeka is a considerable chief, is
he not? I would like to see him."
"This is going to be no fool of a storm," went on Lamont, again looking
upward. "The sooner we get under cover the better."
The booming growl had changed into a well-nigh unintermittent roar, as
the huge cloud, towering pillar-like, now spread its black wings in a
dark canopy in every direction. The horses pricked up their ears and
snorted with alarm at each blinding flash. So far no rain had fallen,
and there was a smell of burning in the very air.
Now a barking of dogs sounded between the rolls of thunder, and rounding
a spur they came in sight of a large kraal, lying at the mouth of a
lateral kloof, densely bushed and extending far up into the range of
hills. The conical huts stood within the strong encircling stockade,
and among them dark forms stood about in groups, gazing skyward, and
indulging in deep-toned speculation as to the probability of a copious
and welcome rain to relieve the parched-up and drooping crops in the
lands. But the two white men, as they rode in through the still open
gateway, thought to detect an unwonted sullenness instead of the
cheerful greeting of welcome which should have been theirs. A ringed
man came forward.
"Greeting, Gudhlusa," called out Lamont, to whom the man was known. "We
would shelter, and have a talk at the same time with Zwabeka the chief.
Is he in his house?"
"I see you, Lamonti. _Au_! Zwabeka? He is asleep."
"No matter. It will do when he wakes. Meanwhile we will go into a hut,
for the rain will be great."
"'M--'m!" assented the bystanders in a guttural hum. "The rain will be
great. Ah! ah! The rain will be great!"
There was a significance in the repetition hardly observed at the time
by the new arrivals. One of them, at any rate, was to appreciate it
later. To one of them, also, the utter absence of geniality on the part
of the people supplied food for thought, combined too as it was with the
use of his native name--in this instance a corruption of his own--
instead of the more respectful `_Nkose_.' But then Zwabeka's people
were mostly Abezantsi--or those of the old, pure-blooded Zulu stock, and
therefore proud.
"Come this way, _Amakosi_," said the man he had addressed as Gudhlusa,
pointing to a small enclosure. "We will put your horses there, and give
them grain. Yonder is a new hut with the thatch but just on. There
will ye rest."
"That is good, Gudhlusa," said Lamont, giving him some tobacco. "Later,
when the chief is awake we will talk with him."
The new hut proved to be a very new one, which was a huge advantage in
that it ensured immunity from the swarming cockroaches inseparable from
old ones, and even worse. On the other hand, the thatch `just put on,'
was not as complete as it might be, for a glint of sky visible through a
hole or two in the roof did not give encouraging promise of a
water-tight protection from the average thunder-shower. The saddlery
and luggage was accordingly disposed in what looked likely to prove the
driest side of the hut.
"Well, Father, I'm inclined to think we can see our quarters for
to-night," said Lamont cheerfully, as he filled his pipe and passed on
his pouch to his companion.
"Thanks. I think so too. Well, we might do worse."
"Oh yes. A dry camp is better than a wet one. Do you talk the
Sindabele?"
"A little. Enough to make myself understood for the ordinary purposes.
But I am learning it. You seem to have got it well, though."
"I wish I had it better. You see I am a bit interested in these people.
They--and their history--appeal to me. Poor devils! I can't help
sympathising with them to a certain extent. It must be rotten hard luck
for a lot of these older ones, like Zwabeka for instance, who have been
big-wigs in their time, having to knuckle down to a new and strange form
of government in which they come out very under-dog indeed. Still, it's
the universal law and there's no help for it. But--I'm sorry for them
for all that."
Could he have seen what was in Zwabeka's mind,--Zwabeka, nominally
asleep in one of the huts a few yards away,--could he have heard what
was on Zwabeka's tongue, yea, at that very moment, where would his
sympathy have been? The course of but a few days was destined to change
it, like that of many another who desired to treat the conquered race
with fairness and consideration, and who like himself were sitting on
the brink of the hitherto quiescent vent of a raging volcano.