It was a weird picture. The grey rocks jutting forth into the evening
stillness; the spotted, creeping beast, gathering itself together for
its deadly spring; the man, weakened, helpless, lying there at its
mercy. Even then, so strange are the fantasies that cross the human
brain at the most critical moments--even then, with a kind of grim
humour it flashed upon Renshaw Fanning how thoroughly the positions were
reversed. Many a time had the spotted pard fallen a victim to his sure
aim; now it had devolved upon one of the feline race to give him his
death stroke.
With bared fangs and snarling throat, the brute once more gathered
itself to spring. But instead of hurling itself upon the prey before
it, it uttered a yell of pain and whisking half round seemed to be
snapping at its own side. Its tail lashed convulsively, and a frightful
roar escaped from its furry chest. There was a faint twanging sound
beneath, and again something struck it, this time fair in the eye.
Snarling hideously the great beast reared itself up against the cliff,
beating the air wildly with its formidable paws. Then its mighty bulk
swayed, toppled over, and fell crashing to the ground beneath.
Thoroughly roused now, Renshaw peered cautiously over the ledge. But
what he saw opened his eyes to the fact that this opportune, this
unlooked-for deliverance, was more apparent than real. In escaping from
one peril he had only fallen into another.
The huge cat was rolling and writhing in the throes of death. Its
slayer, an under-sized, shrivelled barbarian, was approaching it
cautiously--a naked Koranna, armed with bow and arrows and spear. But
cautiously as Renshaw had peeped forth the keen glance of the savage had
seen him. Their eyes had met.
He lay still, thinking over this last, this desperate chance. He was
unarmed--practically that is--for although he had a knife it was not
likely the enemy would come to such close quarters as to admit of its
use. The latter with his bow and arrows would have him at the most
perfect disadvantage. He could climb up to the ledge and finish him off
at his leisure.
For some minutes Renshaw lay still as death. Not a sound broke the
silence, not a voice, not a footfall. Perhaps, after all, he had been
mistaken, and the Koranna had not seen him. Or, more likely, the savage
had started off to call up his companions, who probably were not far
distant. Was it worth while utilising his chances so far as to make one
more effort to save his life, to strive to gain some other place of
concealment before the whole horde came up?
But just then a sound reached his ear--a faint, stealthy rasping. The
Koranna was already climbing up to the ledge.
The mysterious shuffling continued. A stone, loosened by the climber,
fell clattering down the rocks. Then there was silence once more--and--
A wrinkled, parchment-hued countenance reared itself up, peering round
the elbow of the cliff. The yellow eyes stared with a wild beast-like
gleam, the black wool and protruding ears looking fiend-like in the
falling darkness. His hour had come. Momentarily he expected to
receive the fatal shaft.
But it came not. After the head followed the squat, ungainly body,
standing upright upon the ledge, the sinewy, ape-like hand grasping its
primitive, but fatal, armament--the bow and arrows and the spear. But
the bow was not bent, no arrow was fitted to the string.
"_Allamaghtaag! Myn lieve Baas_!" ["Almighty! My dear master!"]
Renshaw sat upright and stared at the speaker, and well he might. Was
he dreaming? The old familiar Dutch colloquialism--the voice!
The squalid, forbidding-looking savage advanced, his puckered face
transformed with concern. Renshaw stared, and stared again. And then
he recognised the familiar, if unprepossessing lineaments of his
defaulting retainer--old Dirk.
The old Koranna rushed forward and knelt down at his master's side,
pouring forth a voluble torrent of questions in the Boer dialect. How
had he come there? Where was he wounded? Who had dared to attack him?
Those _schelm Bosjesmenschen_ [Rascally Bushmen]! He would declare war
against the whole race of them. He would shoot them all. And so on,
and so on. But amid all his chatter the faithful old fellow, having
discovered where the wound was, had promptly ripped off Renshaw's boot.
Yes, there it was--the poisoned puncture of the Bushman arrow--livid and
swollen. For a moment Dirk contemplated it. Then he bent down and
examined it more attentively, probing it gingerly with his finger. The
result seemed to satisfy him.
"Nay, what, Baasje [Literally, `little master.' A term of endearment],
you will not die this time. The thick leather of the boot has taken off
nearly all the poison, and all the running you have had since has done
the rest. Still, it was a near thing--a near thing. _'Maghtaag_!--if
the arrow had pierced you anywhere but through the boot you would have
been a dead man long since. Not this time--not this time."
"And the tiger, Dirk?" said Renshaw, with a faint smile. "You are
indeed a mighty hunter." For he remembered how often he had chaffed the
old Koranna on his much vaunted prowess as a hunter, little thinking in
what stead it should eventually stand himself.
"The tiger? Ja Baas. I will just go down and take off his skin before
it gets pitch dark. Lie you here and sleep. You are quite safe now,
Baas--quite safe. You will not die this time--_'Maghtaag_, no!"
So poor Renshaw sank back in a profound slumber, for he was thoroughly
exhausted. And all through the hours of darkness, while the wild
denizens of the waste bayed and howled among the grim and lonely
mountains, the little weazened old yellow man crouched there watching
beside him on that rocky ledge, so faithfully, so lovingly. His
comrade--the white man--his friend and equal--had deserted him--had left
him alone in that desert waste to die, and this runaway servant of his--
the degraded and heathen savage--clung to him in his extremity, watched
by his side ready to defend him if necessary at the cost of his own
life.