Down, down to the far horizon sinks the westering sun, the malignant
fierceness of his blazing countenance abating somewhat, for he is within
an hour of his rest. Yet the earth still gives forth its shimmering
heat, and on every side the red surface of the parched-up plain assumes
a hue of blood beneath the golden glow of sunset, which, contrasted with
the vivid blue of the heavens, is productive of a strangely weird and
unearthly effect.
So thinks, at any rate, a horseman, toilsomely making his way over its
inhospitable expanse. His steed, suffering terribly from want of water,
as well as from a lack of nutritious food, can hardly drag its limbs
along, and more than once has the rider endeavoured to relieve the poor
beast by undertaking long spells of walking. But who can indulge in
protracted exercise under such difficulties? Consequently the horseman,
though of fine and powerful build, is nearly as fagged and used up as
his unfortunate steed. Now and again a flying locust raps him in the
face as he rides.
"What an infernal country!" he exclaims aloud, wiping his dripping
forehead. "Nearly sunset, no sort of habitation in sight, and not even
a drop of water in this howling desert. By Jove! the situation is
getting serious," he adds, in a tone bordering on alarm.
His alarm is not without reason. Since quitting last night's camp
beside a nearly dry waterhole, containing a noisome mixture, and that of
the consistency of pea-soup, he has found no trace of the indispensable
fluid. And he is lost. A worn-out horse under him, foodless,
waterless, in the midst of an apparently interminable desert, he has
every excuse for beginning to feel excessively concerned.
He is a fine, tall, well set-up man, this stranger. No partiality could
define him as handsome. His features have no regularity, and his
light-blue eyes are a trifle too small and deep set; but there is a
certain power about his countenance, whose square, resolute jaw the
short, fair, pointed beard and heavy, sweeping moustache can only half
hide. Though his face and hands are burnt red brown, there is a subtle
something which tells at a glance he is not colonial born, and that,
too, quite apart from the newness of his travelling dress prematurely
worn by rough usage, and of the serviceable valise which is strapped in
front of his saddle.
A stony _kopje_, the only eminence for five miles around, rises before
the traveller. This he has been using as a landmark, and through its
agency steering in a straight line. It, too, having reached, he now
ascends, and immediately there escapes him a pretty forcible ejaculation
of relief. Away in front, breaking the deadly monotony of this horrible
plain, lies a house--a homestead.
It is still three or four miles distant, though apparently nearer. But
the horse has espied it as soon as his rider, and, pricking forward his
ears, he picks up his head and steps out with something of an approach
to briskness.
The first elation--at the certainty of finding necessaries, such as food
and drink--over, the traveller's thoughts turn to considerations of
comfort. After all, the welcome haven is in all probability a mere
rough Boer homestead, the abode of dirt and fleas, a place wherein
comfort is an unknown quantity. And at such a prospect, hungry,
thirsty, thoroughly wearied as he is, his spirits droop.
But his musings are interrupted in a sufficiently startling manner, by
nothing less than the "whiz" of a bullet unpleasantly close to his head,
simultaneously with the "bang" of the piece whence it was discharged.
Looking up, he finds that he has approached within a few hundred yards
of the homestead. In the doorway of the same stands a tall man, clad in
a shirt and trousers, with a gun in his hand, from which he is
extracting the still smoking cartridge shell. Barely has he mastered
these details than another bullet sings past his ear, this time nearer
than the first, while the report rings out upon the evening air.
To say that the wayfarer begins to feel exceedingly uncomfortable is to
express little. Here he is, a perfectly peaceable, unoffending person,
about to seek the much-needed hospitality of yonder domicile, and
suddenly, and without an iota of provocation, its owner proceeds to make
a target of him in the most cold-blooded fashion. True, he has heard
that many of the up-country Boers are a wild and lawless set, holding an
Englishman in utter detestation. But this open and unprovoked "act of
war" surpasses anything he may have been led to expect.
"Here, hallo! You, sir! What are you blazing away at me for?" he sings
out, his tone betraying a degree of anger which prudence should have
induced him to suppress.
His hand instinctively goes to the revolver slung round him in a holster
under his coat. But of what use is a six-shooter against an enemy many
hundred yards distant, and armed with a rifle? Therefore, it is with
considerable relief that he beholds his unexpected adversary ground his
piece, stare at him for a moment, then disappear indoors.
The feeling is but transitory, however, as it occurs to him that the
fellow has probably gone in to get more cartridges, and that any moment
he may find himself once more raked by the enemy's fire. He judges it
prudent to try the effect of a parley before venturing any nearer.
"Hi! Hallo, friend!" he shouts, "just drop that target practice, will
you? There isn't an ounce of harm about me. I'm nothing but a poor
devil of a traveller lost in the veldt, and pretty well dead for want of
a drink. D'you understand?"
Then it strikes him that if the inhospitable householder is, as he
expects, a Boer, he will probably not understand.
"What _is_ to be done?" exclaims the wayfarer in sheer despair. "Well,
here goes. May as well be shot as starve in the veldt; and perhaps the
fellow's only playing the fool--trying what I'm made of--and, if I were
only within fifty, or even a hundred yards of him, the `trying' wouldn't
be all on one side."
Thus musing, he continues his advance upon the homestead, walking his
horse, and whistling in an attempt to appear thoroughly unconcerned,
although, in point of actual fact, he feels pretty much as the Six
Hundred must have done on receipt of the historic and idiotic order.
But no more leaden greetings reach him, nor does the enemy appear. All
is silent as the grave as he rides up to the house.
The front door stands wide open, exactly as the shooter had left it on
retiring therefrom. There is not a sound of anybody moving inside. The
place might have been uninhabited. Just then the sun, which all this
time has gradually been sinking, and has already touched the horizon,
disappears.
Something like a chill creeps over the traveller at the sudden gloom
which falls upon the tenement just as he is about to cross its
threshold. Standing at the door, he raps it, somewhat impatiently, with
the handle of his whip. No answer.
Cautiously, and with hand on his pistol, he enters. There is no
passage; the door opens straight into the sitting-room. At the sight
which meets his eyes he starts, and involuntarily falls back.
In a corner of the room stands a tall figure. Leaning with one shoulder
against the wall, its eyes are fixed upon the intruder, great hollow
eyes, which seem to glitter strangely, and the deathly pallor of the
face is enhanced by its framing of dark hair and beard. Though
otherwise motionless, both hands and lips are working slightly, but no
sound escapes the latter. The wayfarer, though not by any means a man
of weak nerves, is conscious of something horribly uncanny about this
ghostlike figure, so silent and immovable, glowering at him in the
shades of the fast-gathering twilight.
But at the same time he recognises his recent assailant. No ghost this,
but--a madman.
For a moment both stand staring at each other. Then the strange-looking
figure speaks.
"Welcome, friend--welcome. Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.
Have you brought any locusts with you? Lots of them--swarms, to eat up
what little grass the drought has left. Have you brought them, I say?
Aha--fine things, locusts! Don't know how we should get on without
them. Grand things for this Country! Fine country this! Green as an
emerald. Emeralds, no, diamonds. But there isn't a `stone' on the
place, devil a `stone.'"
"Locusts! Emeralds! Diamonds!" echoes the stranger in amazement.
"Scott, but the poor chap's clean off his chump--clean off it! What on
earth am I to do with him, or with myself either for the matter of
that?"
"Not a `stone' on the place!" goes on the speaker, in a mournful tone.
"I've fossicked high and low, and there isn't one--not one. Ah, but--
the Valley of the Eye! Come, friend. We will start at once. You shall
make your fortune. Dirk! Dirk!" he shouts, passing the wondering
stranger, and gaining the doorway.
A withered old Koranna, clad in a mangy sheep-skin kaross, who has just
finished penning a flock of Angora goats in one of the kraals, comes
running up at the summons. At sight of his master his parchment visage
assumes a look of deep concern.
"_Die Baas is reegte zick_!" ["The master is properly ill."] he says,
turning to the stranger.
"I should rather think he was," assents the latter, who, although his
acquaintance with colonial Dutch is extremely limited, has no difficulty
in grasping the old fellow's meaning. "Stones, locusts, Valley of the
Eye! Pho! The sooner we get him to bed the better. I say, Old man,"
he breaks off persuasively, laying a hand on the shoulder of his
unconscious host, "you're not quite the thing, you know. Come along and
turn in. I'll give you a hand at getting your togs off."
The other looks at him vacantly, and seems to comprehend. He suffers
himself to be led into the inner room quite docilely, and there and then
to be assisted into bed. Once there, however, the blood rushes to his
face, and he begins raving horribly, though his violence finds
expression in speech rather than in action.
The stranger sits at his bedside carefully watching him.
"Not mad--only fever," he remarks to himself at the close of one of
these paroxysms. "Bush fever, I suppose, and plenty of it. He's got a
pulse like a steam hammer, by Jove!"
He has. Not for nothing has that unwonted giddiness, those shooting
pains in the limbs, attacked him a few hours earlier. By nightfall
Renshaw Fanning is in a burning fever, raving in the throes of delirium.