Tales from the Veld

“I crept out of the barrel to see what they were looking at so set, and there I seed the Kaffirs slipping down the hill, from rock to rock, edging all the time towards the wood, and others coming up over the ridge, their bodies stripped and oiled for war, and their faces smeared with red clay.

“‘My God!’ sed the ole man under his breath; then he bellered out ‘Run!’

“I looked between his legs, and seed Harry and Willie comin’ up from the wood, and walkin’ jes’ ’s if they were comin’ in to dinner.

“The Kaffirs yelled when they seed them, and started running. Harry threw up his gun, and they dropped down, hiding away behind nothing. I yeard Harry laugh. Well, they came on at that fool pace, and all on a sudden the Kaffirs came leaping and dodging down. The two brothers they stood still, with their rifles up and fired; then they come on loading, and fired again.

“‘Run, Willie,’ sed Harry; ‘let’s see who can get in first,’ and with that he made to run, and Willie let out full speed, with the Kaffirs yelling like mad. When he got near the door he looked round and seed Harry walking backwards with his rifle ready, and the Kaffirs hanging away back and whizzing their assegais. He made ’s if to start back, but the ole man caught him by the arm and yanked him in.

“‘Fire!’ sed the ole baas, and he and the three boys blazed away, Jimmy letting rip a handful of slugs.

“Well, the Kaffirs they dropped, crawling for shelter, and Harry came in as cool as you please, with an assegai in his hand that he picked up. Then he seed me crouching down, and laugh’d a’most till he cried, for I were covered with the leavings of the churn.

“They took their places inside the room, each one at a hole, and began firing by fits and starts, Tom standin’ ready with a charge of powder from the horn each time.

“‘They’re going to rush the cattle,’ sed Oll; ‘and we can’t prevent ’em from here. Some of us had better get into the shed.’

“Well, three of them boys went out – Oll, and Harry, and Willie – and there were a terrible how-de-do out there, shoutin’ an’ whistlin’, and bangin’; the dogs barking fit to bust themselves, the ole red bull bellering, and the fowls that had flew to the roof cackling all together. My! I were skeered, and Tom, he looked if he’d bolt inter the tub along with me, but he jes’ kep on pouring out the powder.

“Then I yeard ‘Hurrah,’ and ole Tolver tore open the door, and Tom most split his throat.

“The Kaffirs were on the run, and when I crep’ out, I seed Harry a tearin’ up the hill arter them, with Will at his heels, then – oh, lad! – oh, lad! – from the wood there came out, swift and silent, a party of Kaffirs led by the chief Tyali, and they cut between the three boys and the house.

“I yeard Oll shout, ‘Back! Turn back!’ then again, ‘Together, brothers!’ – and the three, clubbing their rifles, went straight at the chief and his men, an’ ole Tolver dancing about at the door, fearing to shoot, and Tom staring with his eyes wide, and the powder running from the horn on the floor.

“Then there were a whirling crowd of men, and the smack of sticks – and the ‘thud – thud – thud,’ – and groans – and out of the pack Oll lurched, carrying Willie, whose head lay back limp.

“He came along like a tipsy man – rolling – with his mouth fixed in a smile, and the blood running from his head.

“When he were near the door a Kaffir stabbed him in the back, and the ole baas shot the Kaffir.

“Then Oll reeled back, and he spoke in gasps, ‘I can’t – go – any – further – father – take Will – he’s hurt,’ – then he jes’ sank to the ground, and rolled over.

“Seth brought Willie in, and laid him down on the floor.

“And ole man Tolver stood outside the door calling for a loaded gun; and then he sprang at a Kaffir who were stooping to stab Oll, and broke the stock of his gun.

“I were by the door, ’cause I had no strength to move, and I seed someone pass.

“‘Get into the house, father,’ he sed, ‘and hold it.’

“It were Jake; and in his hand he held the axe he took away in the morning.

“He put his hand on his father’s shoulder a moment ‘Get back,’ he sed, ‘for the sake of the boys,’ and then he ran up to where the Kaffirs still swarmed around Harry. He opened a lane with his axe. I tell you I thought it were like splitting water-melons, and I laughed, and Jimmie, he cried. The Kaffirs gave way, crouching and holding their shields up. Then Jake lifted Harry, who were on his knees, and carried him down. As he came, the whole lot of them – maybe five hundred – came with a rush; then Jimmie dashed out, and took Harry from his brother, and Jake stood out alone.

“‘Shut the door!’ he shouted loud and stern; ‘do you hear – shut it!’

“The old baas looked wildly at Seth; and Seth he shook his head.

“‘Shut it,’ sed Jake; ‘in the name of our mother!’ and the ole man with a sort of groan pulled the door to, jamming my fingers.

“Outside were the noise of that fight, and inside were silence, and white set faces, and the tears running from Jimmie’s eyes.

“‘Let me out!’ he cried; ‘let me out!’ he kep’ on cryin’ – ‘let me out!’ and then he struggled to open the door.

“Then we heard Jake again.

“‘Good-bye,’ he sed; and we held our breath, till the fierce shout rose higher and higher, and we knew Jake were dead.

“Then the ole man’s beard curled up. He forgot about his other sons. He opened the door, and with a roar he ran into the Kaffirs, and Jimmie with him. Seth were follering, too, when an assegai whizzed into the room, and a Kaffir stood at the doorway, when Seth jabbed him in the stomach with the muzzle, and druv his fist into the face of another; then he pulled-to the door, and there were only him and Tom and me, with Willie dead and Harry gasping.

“Then Seth began to sing. He’d stop to shoot, then he’d sing again; and the sound of his singing were worse than the yelling of the Kaffirs swarming all round the house. Tom he stood up in the room tremblin’ and loadin’, his face black where the smoke stuck to the tears, and once and again he’d jump to a hole and shoot.

“And at last an ole pot leg struck Seth on the head and he sot down.

“He put his hand to his head and looked at the blood; then he shook his head and laughed a strange laugh.

“‘It’s all over,’ he sed – ‘dang it.’ Then he saw Harry, and he said softly: ‘Poor chap,’ then he stared at Willie, and his eye came on to me watchin’ him.

“‘Abe,’ he sed, ‘you’ll find my concertina hanging up; jes’ hand it to me.’

“Well, I gave it him, and bolted back into the tub, and he began to play.

“The Kaffirs stopped, and I yeard one call out ‘Yinny!’ and others said ‘Yoh!’ and you could hear them trying to peep in.

“‘Tom,’ he said soft.

“‘Yes, Seth.’

“‘You and Abe get into the mealie pit in the pantry. Maybe, they’ll not see you.’

“Tom he shook his head, and banged the gun – and the Kaffirs came hard at the door.

“Seth he went on playing, and Harry rolled over. ‘I’ve got a pain,’ he muttered; ‘mother, I’ve got a pain,’ – and Seth he went on playing softer and softer.

“Then I crawled away inter the dark of the pantry – inter the mealie hole.”

Abe stopped, and his face looked grey and aged.

“Well, Abe?”

“That’s all sonny. They did not find me.”

“And what became of Tom?”

“He went with his brothers, sonny. Seven better boys you’d never want to meet, and seven finer men you could not. They all went – in that one day – and the Kaffirs swep’ on over the land.”

Chapter Thirty Three
Out of the Deep Sea

“I see that the magistrate at Port Nolloth has seen the sea-serpent. It was a mile out at sea – raised its head ten feet from the water, and remained in sight for an hour.”

“Is he partickler about the ten feet?” said Abe Pike.

“Yes, he is explicit on that point.”

“Seems to me it’s difficult to judge that height at a distance of a mile,” said Abe; “but, come to think of it, there was a magistrate at Mossel Bay who had the same luck about two years ago. He seed the serpent sporting around for a hour off the coast, and the crittur raised its head somewhere about ten feet. So I guess it’s the same that’s cruising off Port Nolloth.”

“Ever been to Port Nolloth?” asked Long Jim. “Well, I have; and the country’s that lonesome and sand-blown, and gen’rally lost to all sense of what’s fittin’ for human beings to admire, that I’m not surprised the magistrate thought he saw something.”

“Don’t you believe in sea-serpents, Jim?”

“What, me! Well onct I spent a whole hour trying to smash a sea-serpent with rocks, and at the end of that time I found the thing were sea-bamboo – round and smooth, and tapering away to a point like a moving tail. No, sir; give me something I can see and feel.”

“’Cording to all accounts,” said Abe, drily, “if you did feel the crittur, it would be when passing down his throat.”

“Of course you’ve seen one, Abe?” said Si Amos with a slight sneer.

“I have,” said Abe, quietly, as he reached over for the demijohn of Cango.

“Did he lift his head ten feet from the sea?” asked Long Jim.

“I see what it is,” said Abe; “you fellows been listening to my exper’ences so long that you think I’m lying; and I’m not gwine to sacrifice my self-respeck by telling you things you don’t believe. That’s so!”

There was a long pause, as no one felt disposed to make the needed sacrifice to Abe’s exacting honour.

“Was it a big snake?” asked Long Jim presently.

“Pretty big,” said Abe, shortly.

“Twenty feet?” asked Jim, anxiously.

Mr Pike smiled.

“Not so much?” said Jim.

“About a quarter of a mile long,” said Abe, rising. “Well, I guess I’ll go. So long.”

“Stay a moment,” said Jim, firmly; “I can’t let you go without saying that Abe Pike’s word’s as true as steel. A quarter of a mile, you said?”

“Might a been a yard shorter,” said Abe, carelessly, as he paused at the door.

“Come back, old man,” said Jim. “Take this chair – and there’s more in the jug. So; that’s good. A quarter of a mile,” he muttered. “Well, that’s good enough for a stretcher.”

“If you come along with me, Jim,” said Abe, “I’ll tell you about it. But I’m not laying myself open to words from them as is full of suspicion as a family of jackals.”

“That’s not fair to me,” I said. “I’ve swallowed – I mean I’ve accepted – all your stories without question.”

“And me, too,” said Si, with a gulp. “Try some of this Transvaal tabak – it’s first rate.”

Abe permitted himself to be appeased. He filled his pipe, and as he leant back in the chair with his heels up on the chimney, and a glass in one hand, a reminiscent look overspread his rugged face.

“This yer exper’ence happened to me away back ’fore you younkers wore shoes – but I never told it, as I were afraid of skeering the wits outer you. That’s so. The Little Kleinemonde over yonder were a blind river, same as now, with a stretch of beach about 200 yards wide ’tween its lip and the sea-foam hissing along the hard sands where the little tumble-crabs swarm in their shells, and the air comes bubbling up outer the sea-worm’s holes. It were more lonely than now – for there’s town families as picnic there for weeks in their tents – and you can hear the little children laugh – and sometimes see a string of girls holding hands and jumping up in the foam. There was never a soul then on the wide, white beach, that stretched away miles east and west – with black rocks running out into the breakers – and back of the beach the high white sandhills, rimmed on the top with thick berry bushes. It were that lonely that sometimes I could have a run away, and the birds that flitted along, hunting for what the tide cast up – the oyster catcher and the curlew made it lonelier with their wild cries. And the river lay back, still and quiet, without a current – between the dark woods – quiet and still – crouching down behind the stretch of beach sand – as if it feared the roaring surf – always tossing and thundering jest across that narrow riband. And the waves came always rushing in, as though they would like to wash away the sand strip and pour their waters over the silent river – and in the spring tides I seed the outermost fringe of foam sweep a’most up to the lip of the river – and go back and come up again – swinging to and fro – till sometimes a little trickle of the salt water would fall into the dead stream, where a many fishes gathered, hoping to get out at last into the great wild waters. I caught fish there at them times – going into ten pounds – springers and steinbrasse. Well, one day there came a great storm of rain – like a cloudburst – and every cattle track and footpath were a running stream – and every river bed were filled to the brim. And in the night I yeard the thunder of the waves at the fall of the spring tide. My! How they roared through the night – and crashed as the big waves curled over and smote the water with the blow of a falling rock. The night were that wild that I could get no sleep – and went to the door to look out. The ground was wet and steaming, and the sound of running water came from every dip and hollow. I sed to myself the dead river will be alive, and the tide and flood will cut a passage deep and wide through the beach, and there will be a litter heaped along the tide mark all down the beach, with good pickings for the first man. So I put a sack over my head, and taking the old muzzle-loader, stepped out into the slushy dark, and squelched away over the sodden veld towards the Kleinemonde. I struck the ridge above the river jest about sunrise, and the light coming through the mist showed up the wildest sight of tossing waters and a beach all strewn with trees and litter of seaweed. As I thought, the dead river was alive and roaring into the seas through a broad channel cut deep into the sand. I went down to the beach and watched the flood pour out, while the spray from the waves druv stinging against my face. I tell you, it was a sight to stand and watch, not heeding the wind or the wet – and the savageness of it gripped hold of me. Bymby I crept along the beach, in and out the piled masses o’ rubbish – finding a many dead birds and sich things – then about noon I was back ag’in at the river – where the incoming tide, all red with the wash from the land, was rolling back the river water and damming up the channel ag’in with tons of sand and seaweed. I made a fire under the shelter of the wood and cooked a fat duck I picked up, and when I finished him off I dried myself by the fire while I watched the river. Jes’ then I seed something in the river that made me jump behind a tree – the black fin of the biggest shark you ever seed, standing out maybe a yard high – and raking back maybe twelve feet – with spikes all along. ‘Lord luv me!’ thinks I; ‘what in thunder’s that?’ And I let drive with both barrels, and the thing darted off with a rush that sent a wave up both sides of the banks among the trees – and far up the river I seed the sun shine on the curve of his body as he turned to come down – and I cut my stick. When I got home I set to and bent a fish-hook outen a steel stable rake – lashing on a line of buffalo rheims. I went back, baited the hook with a sea-bird that I had picked up, and let it run out, taking a bend round the tree with the rheim. The crittur I reckoned was still there – for why, he couldn’t get out by reason of the silting up of the channel – though I could see no sign of him – and he paid no heed to the bait. Well, I were getting tired, when I noticed some cattle at the bend on the other side, where there’s a bit of the flat with a ‘salt lick’ – that’s a favourite place for them, by reason of the salt in the soil. They were jest capering around with their tails up, then standing to stare at something in the river, with a ole black bull nearer than the rest, pawing at the ground. I could tell there was some crittur there that they didn’t like – maybe a tiger – but I could see nix beyond a rock or tree stump. As I watched, wondering what could ha’ disturbed them, the ole bull shook his head, then fetched a deep beller and rolled on a few yards – while the cows and young stock behind came together in a bunch. Then the bull stood ag’in – pawing the wet ground – and Lord sakes! – jes’ then that rock riz out of the river.”

“What’s that?”

“Yessir!” and Abe wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “My sakes! I jes’ sunk inter the rushes in a tremble, and the ole bull, with a beller that rolled down the river, turned to run. He never got mor’n ten yards when he were caught by the neck, and I yeard his bones crunch.”

“What caught him?”

“A mouth! It were a mouth that caught him, set in a head like a water barrel, with a neck behind thick as a blue-gum tree, blue along the top and white below. Shaped like a snake it were. It caught the bull by the neck, and lay outstretched, sucking his blood, while the four legs of the poor crittur beat the air, and the cows standing off rushed about lowing. Eighty yards he was distant, and for all I were in a lather from fear, I plunked a bullet jes’ back of the opened jaws. Believe me, at the sound of the gun them cows, with their tails up, charged down on that sarpint. Yessirs, they went for him like a troop of hosses. Some of them took the neck flying, without attempting any mischief, but two old cows went slap at the body with their horns down, druving them in till the blood spurted high. Then he let go o’ the bull, swept the cows off their feet, and with a snort slid into the river, and came charging down like a steam tug for the mouth – his head lifted high up, and the waves streaming as he went I let drive at him as he went by, clean into the head – and at the shot he towered up like a column – and, so lifting himself, flung half his length onto the sand bar. Then he wriggled and writhed till the bulk of his middle lay high and dry, and the tail of him, twenty yards up the river, lashed the water with blows that sounded like cannon – till the swell of the waves he raised floated him off, and I saw him cut through the waves out into the deep sea beyond.”

“Is that all?”

“Yessir, that’s all; and if you’d a been there ’sted of me, Si Amos, I guess you’d a said it was too much – a darn sight too much for your nerves. As for me, I niver went near the place for a year, and when there’s a spring-tide I keep indoors. One thing I seed, and that was a growth of barnacles and seaweed on his back, which explains why it is that some folk say the sea-serpent has got a mane like a hoss.”

Chapter Thirty Four
The Young Burgher

The little Dutch village was astir, where almost hidden by the trees of the orchards and quince hedges grown high, it stood beneath the bare rock-bound hills beyond Kambula.

The Zulus had lifted the cattle when they grazed homewards at dusk amid the thin scattering of dark mimosas on the grey plain. The herdsman lay, with his face to the sky, unburied yet, with a terrible wound in his breast, and the long, ugly slit downwards through the abdomen that told of Zulu work.

And the Commando was turning out.

Ten men, sitting loosely in their saddles, were all there were – big, gaunt men with shaggy beards and lined faces of the colour of smoked leather. Of untanned leather, too, were their trousers and veldschoens. Each one carried his food in the small saddle-bag of “rattel” skin, food of the scantiest – a strip of biltong, a pound or two of “ash cookies” – and slung from each bent shoulder was the powder-flask and bullet-bag.

Ten men and a boy – and he alone showed excitement in the brightness of his brown eyes and the firm set of his mouth. A boy so brown that you would have said he was of coloured origin, and with clothes so worn that no street boy would have envied him. A sullen boy and dull of wit you would have thought from his narrow forehead and bent brows, but there was one who did not think so.

“Oh, my kind!” she said, standing by the gate in the quince hedge; “they do not want one so young. And there is the wood to be brought in.”

“Ja!” said one burgher, taking his pipe from his mouth; “he is altogether too young for this work. Let him stay.”

“Hear to Oom Jan,” cried the woman, stepping across a tiny stream that gurgled pleasantly in its narrow bed beside the road; and she laid a restraining hand on the old rheim that did service for the boy’s reins. “Come, my son – my little one.”

The boy looked steadily at his mother. “I am not little any more,” he said.

“It is true,” said the big man who led the little band, turning slowly in his saddle. “He is no longer little. He must come!”

The woman let go her hold and stood back humbly, while her tear-stained face was turned appealingly at the man – her own man; and the burghers, smoking, took advantage of the pause to look back at their own wives and children, who stood out in the solitary street, drawing comfort from each other.

“We must all give,” he said.

“Why should I give all?” she cried with renewed hope. “My husband and my son. Let him stay. Oh! let him stay!”

“Ride!” said the Commandant, sternly; then he sighed, and rode on in silence, never turning.

The boy kept his eyes fixed on his father’s broad back; then a lump came into his throat.

Oom Jan touched him on his shoulder, and the boy started.

“Do not leave her so, neef,” he said.

The boy looked back and waved his ragged cap. “I will come ’gain soon, little mother,” he shouted.

“If the Groot Herr wills,” muttered Oom Jan.

The boy looked at him sharply, then rode on with his head up and his hand firmer upon the stock of his long rifle, as long almost as himself. Already his keen young eyes swept the veld for signs of the Zulus – and he had forgotten the little house and the little patient mother.

The village soon was left behind, and the little band went slowly over the ridge and down the long slope, into a narrow valley, and at dusk reached the broken veld that stretches up to the frowning height of Hlobane. It was very silent. The burghers smoked, but talked not; and very plain, and seeming very near, came the dismal baying of a Zulu dog from a lofty kraal on Zunguin Nek, where a fire gleamed red through the dark.

“There are men there,” said the Commandant in a guttural whisper. “We must ride hard in the morning when we return.”

“Ja!” said Oom Jan; “else they will cut us off. I hope they will eat and drink much this night, so that they sleep fast.”

The other burghers glanced up at the red fire and round into the darkness, as if calculating which way they would ride in case they were cut off.

Young Piet Uys breathed hard. He had often looked at the steep height of Zunguin’s Kop from afar – and now the dark mass that seemed to shut out half the sky oppressed him with the sense of hidden danger. Moreover, he was hungry and cold. They had been four hours in the saddle, and it was surely time they stopped? Why didn’t they tell his father that the horses would grow tired, and that men couldn’t go on all night without feeding and warming themselves?

“There is water here,” he ventured, “and good grass.”

“Ja!” growled Oom Jan.

“Perhaps we will stop soon,” said the boy timidly.

A burgher on his left grunted, and young Piet felt that he had said something stupid. There was deeper silence now, for they were riding in a hollow, and he heard the sound of eating. Why were they eating? Perhaps they would not stop!

“If we stop,” said Oom Jan, as if answering his thoughts, “we shall not get there before sun-up.”

Young Piet sighed heavily and thought of his rheim bed at home, and then of the little mother. He felt now why it was she cried when he left. This was weary work – this blundering on over rocks and through cold streams, with none of the rush and excitement he had pictured.

“And if we do not get there before sun-up,” continued Oom Jan, in his slow way, “we lose the cattle and all.”

“Hold still!” came a muttered command from the leader.

The men drew up, and the horses shook their heads, then pricked their ears, as out of the darkness ahead came the murmur of a chant, swelling up to a deep boom, and sinking again till almost inaudible.

“They dance and make merry,” said the leader. “Ride!”

Once more the horses moved on, picking their way, while each man unslung his rifle and held it with the butt on his thigh. And louder rose that monotonous chant, mounting to the shrill notes of the women’s voices, and sinking to the menacing bass of the warrior’s deep chest notes; and presently there suddenly started out of the gloom a score of gleaming fires in a circle at the base of a vast bulk that stood for Hlobane.

“Pipes out!” said the leader. “Groot Andries, and you Dick Stoffel, and you Piet Uys, will stand here, keeping out of sight, and fire on the Zulus if they follow. The rest – ride!”

The two burghers and the boy remained, and the others filed out of sight. Slowly the time passed to these three as they crouched behind rocks, with their horses tethered in a hollow, and the cold wind of the early morning numbing their fingers and biting their poorly-clad bodies, till the grey of the dawn appeared and threw the mountain of Hlobane into relief. The singing had died away as the wind rose, the fires were dim, and the silence of the early morn was over the land.

“Look!” said Groot Andries, pointing a huge hand, and a mile off on the buttress of the mountain young Piet saw a dark mass in motion, with a few moving specks behind.

He drew his breath in sharply, and the misery left his face. “They are driving the cattle,” he said.

“Ja!” said Andries, moving in his lair to get more comfortable, and sighting along his rifle.

How quickly they come. Piet could see the gleam of tossing horns – and then he counted the riders, with his father riding last. “They have not been seen,” he whispered.

“Oh, ja!” growled Stoffel, “the verdomde folk come.”

Piet raised his head, and his heart almost stopped, as on the left of the cattle he saw Zulus running like greyhounds, speeding to reach a kopje by which the cattle must be driven, and his startled glance roaming further, marked a thin grey whisp of smoke curling up the mountain’s dark side, while his ear caught the hoarse sound of the Zulu horn spreading the alarm.

Groot Andries turned his head and looked long.

“Alle magtij!” he cried; “they sleep not up there. May the Groot Heer help us out for our wives sake.”

Young Piet stared at the big man, then glanced back up Zunguin’s rock-rimmed summit, and saw tiny dark figures like ants hurrying amid the huge rocks. He moistened his lips, and looked at his horse.

“Mount and ride, neef,” said Andries, softly. “Keep towards the Blood River over by Kopje Alleen. Go, little neef.”

“Ja!” growled Stoffel, who was smoking furiously; “loop, little one!”

Young Piet stared at them wildly, then he looked ahead and saw the cattle coming on in a mass, with his own red heifer leading. He saw, too, his father stand alone, looking back, while the other burghers rode hard behind the cattle, and the Zulus poured along untiring. Why did his father stop? Could he not see the warriors?

“Father,” he screamed; “ride!” He would have risen, but a heavy hand was laid upon him.

“Remember the order,” growled Stoffel – “to keep ourselves hid.”

“I will be still,” said Piet, quietly. Then he saw his father throw up his gun and shoot, while another burgher halted and wheeled round with his rifle ready. With a rush the cattle swept by – the burghers after.

Not one drew rein. Not even the Commandant, who simply glanced at the three forms as he went by, last of all, saying briefly, “Shoot straight, and follow fast!”

“Wait, little neef,” said Andries, “and don’t fire anyhow, but single out your man. Then load, mount, and gallop.”

Piet was calm now that he was called upon to act. He dropped a warrior in his stride, loaded quickly, making the ramrod spring, and was waiting by his horse with the reins of the other two all ready for their riders.

“Good neef,” said Andries, as he swung into the saddle, and having momentarily checked the enemy’s advance, they dashed after their comrades. A quarter of a mile further on they passed an ambush, where three other burghers were lying in readiness, and then they dashed up to the cattle with a whoop. Young Piet, flushed with his act, looked for approval from his father, but the Commandant’s gaze was fixed anxiously ahead on a column of dark figures leaping like antelopes down Zunguin’s side. From the rear, too, came the loud slap of three rifles, and the angry war shout of the Hlobane warriors.

“They will head the cattle off,” said Stoffel; “and we will be caught between two fires. Let us leave the cattle and ride to the left, when they will let us go free.”

“That is a bad word,” said the Commandant, sternly. “We go back with the cattle or not at all.”

They rode, then, into a stretch of donga-worn country, where they had to slow up; and the cattle, no longer hard pressed, stood to get their wind, with their heads down and tongues lolling out.

It was only a brief rest; but the Zunguin warriors profited by it, and their fleetest men were already rounding the cattle to turn them up the hill. There rang out the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the black warriors pitched forward on his face.

“Keep your fire,” said the Commandant, sternly, as he looked round at his son. “Was that you, Piet? It was a good shot, my little one.”

Piet hung his head, and looked askance to see whether any of the men were laughing at him, but they were never so far from laughter as then. Several were hedging away to the left, looking at the Commandant out of the tail of their small eyes, ready for the bolt across the rolling plain to the Blood River.

“We must turn the cattle,” said the leader. “Come, all together,” and he moved on up the hill. But no one followed.

“If we are killed,” said Oom Jan, slowly, “our wives and children will suffer more than if we return not with the cattle.”

“Ja, ja! that is altogether true,” said the others, eagerly.

The Commandant glanced back and saw that he was alone.

“Keep the Kaffirs back,” he said, without any anger, “and I will myself turn them.”

So he urged on his great horse up the hill, while the others faced about and fired, not recklessly, but only when they were sure.