The race-course at Gandela lay just outside the township, and between it
and the bushy ridge Ehlatini.
It was a large, circular space, surrounded by a not particularly strong
bush-fence, and now on the day of the race meeting and gymkhana it
presented a very lively scene indeed; for not only was practically the
whole population of Gandela there gathered, but that of the surrounding
district. Settlers from outlying farms, prospectors from remote camps,
storekeepers and others, had all come in to see or join in the fun. And
in contrast to the swarm of bronzed and belted men--coatless, and
wearing for the most part the broad-brimmed American hat--a flutter of
bright colour here and there of blouse and sunshade showed that the
ornamental sex, as represented in fa-away Matabeleland, was quite as
ambitious of being up to date as anywhere else. Taking it altogether
they were having a good time of it, as was bound to be the case in a
locality where man was largely in preponderance, and where, in
consequence, there were not enough women to go round, as we heard Clare
Vidal remark.
She herself was looking altogether winsome and delightful, as she
flashed forth jest and repartee among the group surrounding her, for she
was holding quite a little court. Men--among them fine gallant-looking
fellows who had served with some distinction in the former war--seemed
to hang upon her words, or was it her tones, her smiles?--laying up for
themselves, perchance, store of future heartache. Her brother-in-law,
who was one of the stewards, declared she was causing a positive
obstruction. A hoot of good-humoured derision arose from the group.
"Oh, go away, Fullerton, you jolly old policeman," cried one man.
"Send him off, Mrs Fullerton, do," said another.
But before Lucy had time to reply, two bronzed giants had seized the
offender one by each arm, and gently but firmly marched him across the
course to where an impromptu bar under a canvas awning was doing a
roaring trade.
"That's better for you, old man," said one, as three glasses were set
down empty.
"And unless you give us your word not to bother Miss Vidal any more
we'll keep you here all day," said the other.
"Oh, I'll give you my word for anything you like," laughed Fullerton.
"We'll have another round, and then I must get back."
It must be conceded that the racing was poor, but then, so for the most
part were the horses, thanks to the protracted drought and the necessity
of their training consisting of the process of earning their keep. But
the day was lovely--cloudless and golden--and the heat rose in a shimmer
from the mimosa-dotted veldt and the dark, bushy slope of Ehlatini
lining up to the vivid depths of heaven's blue. A sort of impromptu
grand stand had been effected by placing chairs and benches along a
couple of empty waggons, and at the corner of one of these Clare sat--
still holding her court--while her fervid worshippers talked up to her
from the ground. The luncheon hour was over--so, too, were the races,
but the afternoon would be devoted to tent-pegging and other sports.
"Hallo!" said one of the favoured group. "Blest if that isn't Lamont
over there, and--he's got his coat on."
"Where else should he have it, Mr Wyndham?" said the girl
mischievously.
"He shouldn't have it at all. You know, Miss Vidal, it's an unwritten
rule up here that none of us wear coats."
"But I notice that you are all mighty particular about your collars and
ties," laughed Clare.
"'M--yes. But wearing a coat stamps you as a new-comer. Even Ancram
here has fallen into our way."
Ancram had, and moreover mightily fancied himself accordingly; and had
turned on an additional swagger which he flattered himself still further
marked him out as the complete pioneer. He had been introduced to
Clare, but inwardly raged at the marked coldness in her demeanour
towards himself. It was no imagination, he was satisfied, her frank
sunniness of manner towards everybody else placed that beyond a doubt.
Others had remarked on it too.
"What have you been doing to Miss Vidal, old chap?" one of his
newly-found friends inquired. "She seems to have a down on you." And
Ancram had replied that he was hanged if he knew.
"Why, he's missed all the races," went on the first speaker, referring
to Lamont. "He's looking a bit seedy too. And--no, he hasn't. He
hasn't got on his revolver."
"That's rum, for he never moves without it," said another. "We chaff
him a bit about that, Miss Vidal, but he says he prefers being on the
safe side."
"Lamont would prefer that," said Ancram significantly.
"Haven't you just been stopping with him?" said Clare rather sharply,
turning on the speaker. "He's a friend of yours, isn't he?"
"Um--ah--yes, yes. Of course," was the somewhat confused reply.
"I'm not sure Mr Lamont isn't right," she went on for the benefit of
the rest. "This is a country full of savages, and savages are often
treacherous. Aren't they, Mr Driffield?"
"Aren't who, and what, Miss Vidal?" replied the Native Commissioner, who
was in the act of joining the group. She repeated her remark.
"Oh yes. You'll get Ancram to agree with you on that head," he added
significantly.
"There!" she cried triumphantly.
"I say, though, Miss Vidal," objected another man, "you surely wouldn't
have us all roll up at a peaceable gymkhana hung round with
six-shooters, like the conventional cowboy? Eh?"
"Well, where should we be if a Matabele impi were to rush in on us now?"
she persisted. "Utterly at its mercy, of course. Imagine it charging
out from there, for instance," pointing towards the dark line of bush on
the slope of Ehlatini.
Some of the other occupants of the `grand stand' here raised quite a
flutter of protest. It was too bad of Miss Vidal to indulge in such
horrible imaginings, they declared. It made them quite uncomfortable.
Many a true word was spoken in jest--and so forth. But the men laughed
indulgently; utterly and sceptically scornful their mirth would have
been but for the sex and popularity of the speaker.
Many a true word spoken in jest! Yes, indeed. Here a lively holiday
scene--the clatter of the horses, laughter and jollity and flirtation--
nearly a couple of hundred men, besides women and children, the former
unarmed,--all save one. The wretched ryot returning at sunset to his
jungle village is not more blissfully unconscious of the lurking
presence of the dread man-eater, which in a moment more, will, with
lightning-like pounce, sweep him out of existence, than are these, that
yonder, upon the bushy slope almost overhanging their pleasure ground, a
thousand armed savages are hungrily watching for the signal which shall
change this sunny, light-hearted scene into a drama of carnage, and woe
and horror unutterable. All--save one.
"You've got such a lively imagination, you ought to write a book about
us, Miss Vidal," suggested Wyndham. "You could make some funny
characters out of some of us, I'll bet."
"I don't doubt it for a moment. Shall I begin with yourself, Mr
Wyndham?"
"Oh, I say though, I don't know about that. Here's Driffield, he'd make
a much better character than I would. Or Lamont--here, Lamont," he
called out, as the latter was passing near. "Roll up, man, and hear
your luck. Miss Vidal is going to write a book and make you the
principal character."
"Really, Mr Wyndham, I wouldn't have believed it of you," laughed
Clare. "To tell such shocking taradiddles. It's obviously a long time
since you attended Sunday school. Now, go away. I won't talk to you
any more--for--let me see, well, not for half an hour. Go away. Half
an hour, mind."