In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other fire, where the native servants sat.
“I tink, Sieur,” he said, “that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear something just now.”
Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane’s whistle was heard, and, directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly foundered horse into the strong firelight.
After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some water. “He’s about cooked, poor beast,” he said.
“I don’t think he’d have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?”
They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.
“That’s pretty bad,” he remarked; “but it might be worse. I’ll have another. I’ve touched no drink for eighteen hours, and it was blazing hot to-day. I’ve got bad news, boys, and I’m afraid we’re in a tight place.”
“Why, what devil’s hole are we in now?” queried Wheler. “I thought we were about through the last of our troubles.”
Somehow I half suspected some game of the kind. I got it all from a Bakalahari near the water in front. Brown, it seems, with his light wagon, trekked across from Kanya by way of Lubli Pits, and has just pipped us. To make matters secure, he has poisoned the water-pit I’ve just come from with euphorbia branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak.
We were just going to drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here—a decent Masarwa he is, too—stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker’s curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one.
It was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning, to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani’s. Without the encumbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be accomplished in two days, or rather less.
Just in front of the chief’s hut was gathered a collection of natives, some nearly naked—save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari folk—others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin—pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals.
In the centre of his headmen and councillors—for such they were—seated on a low wagon-chair of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself, a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the tall white man standing at his side.
we’re just in time,” said Lane, as he dismounted with alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head. “Come on, you fellows!”
His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second or two they were marching side by side with Lane across the *kotla* to Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust.
Tapinyani,” said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as he moved up near to him. “I hope all is well with you and your people. What do you do here with this man,” indicating Brown, “and what is the paper you have in your hands?”
The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.
“How much land?” asked Lane.
“Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats,” replied the chief.
“Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy,” was the answer. “I am glad you have come,” pursued Tapinyani; “I know you well, and you can advise me in this matter.”
He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest on Puff-adder Brown’s part, ran his eye rapidly over the document.
“Just as I thought,” remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani.
“By this paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man. The thing’s an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do with it.” He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.
Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute.
But while Lane and the chief had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened Puff-adder Brown.
“Wait a bit, chief,” he blurted out in the native tongue. “These men are liars, every one of them. Don’t believe them, the swines! There is nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a concession of land themselves.”
“I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow.”
Puff-adder Brown’s face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest.
Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.
But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn. Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition.
It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.
“Keep back! keep back!” cried Lane.
The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a wide circle, and the battle began.
Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather fancied himself in this affair of fists.
He was big and bulky, and three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.
He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying, at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for his adversary.
In the second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder’s infuriated hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily visited; bumps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance; his wind was going.
“Now, old chap,” whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short pause for breath by the combatants, “you’ve done magnificently. You’ve got him on toast! Go in and win. It’s all up with the Puff-adder!”
There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed. In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent’s face and about his ribs.
For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a fighting man himself—with his native weapons. Under Lane’s directions Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out of the place by next day.
During the night the discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels, a career is still open.
During the next few days the wagon and oxen were got safely to the town, and some progress was made in preliminary negotiations for a concession to Lane and his party.
He had once possessed an old broken-down nag, bought from a swindling Namaqua Hottentot, and he knew a little of guns and gunnery. But he was unskilled in the use of either. His people badly wanted giraffe hides for making sandals and for barter; the animals were plentiful in the open forests a day or two north of the town; they must have a big hunt forthwith.
Accordingly, the horses having, meanwhile, under the influence of Kaffir corn, plenty of water, and a good rest, recovered some of their lost condition, a day or two later the hunting party sallied forth. Keen Masarwa Bushmen, half famished and dying for a gorge of flesh, trotted before the horsemen as spoorers; while well in the rear a cloud of Tapinyani’s people hovered in the like hope of meat and hides.
For a whole day the party rode northward into the desert; they found no giraffe, but spoor was plentiful, and they camped by a tiny limestone fountain with high hopes for the morrow. At earliest streak of dawn they were up and preparing for the chase. Tapinyani was stiff and sore from unaccustomed horse exercise, yet he had plenty of pluck, and, clad in his canary-yellow, brand-new, store suit of cords, climbed gaily to the saddle.
In an hour they were on fresh spoor of “camel”; a troop had fed quite recently through the giraffe-acacia groves; and the whispering Bushmen began to run hot upon the trail. Just as the great red disk of sun shot up clear above the rim of earth, they emerged upon a broad expanse of plain, yellow with long waving grass. Save for an odd camel-thorn tree here and there, it was open for some three miles, until checked again by a dark-green belt of forest.
Neither had seen giraffes in the wild state before, and here at last was a towering old bull, whose tail, if it could but be secured, would amply satisfy Kate Manning’s commands. Hume Wheler meant killing that giraffe, more, probably, from a feeling of natural rivalry than anything else. Joe Granton had at heart a much deeper interest in the chase. He was in truth in very serious earnest about Kate Manning; the coveted trophy might mean all the world for him.
chimed in Tom Lane, wiping his brow; “whether you fluked him or not, it was a wonderful shot. You’ve got Kate Manning’s tail right enough.”
Now Joe, it must be frankly admitted, was not a good shot; either of his friends could give him points in the ordinary way. Here was an extraordinary stroke of luck! Speechless with delight, flushed of face, and streaming with sweat, his eyes still fixed upon the piece of grass where the bull had gone down, he mounted his horse and galloped up.
Hume Wheler, with infinite solicitude and care, superintended this operation, while Lane stayed out another two days in the veldt and shot three giraffe for the chief and his people. Hume Wheler himself had the satisfaction of bringing down his first and a good many more “camels” at a subsequent period.
A fortnight’s careful nursing at Tapinyani’s restored Joe Granton to something like his normal health. In due time the expedition returned, after a tedious and even dangerous trek, to Vryburg.
Whether it was, in truth, the coveted giraffe’s tail that settled the business; whether it was the dangerous accident Joe had suffered in her behalf; or whether Kate Manning had not for some time before had a tender corner in her heart for Joe Granton, is scarcely of consequence. Certain it is that, not long after the presentation of the precious trophy, a question that Joe put to Kate was answered in a way that made him extravagantly happy.
The members of the Tapinyani syndicate sold their concession very well during a boom in the South African market, and Joe Granton’s share enabled him to set up cattle ranching in handsome fashion. He and his wife live very happily on a large farm given to them as a portion by Mr Manning. Here they have made a very charming home of their own. The great black switch tail of the bull giraffe hangs on the dining-room wall, plain evidence of the curious romance in which it had been involved.
Hume Wheler, who, with Tom Lane, occasionally drops in upon them during his periodical trips from the interior, often chaffs his old friends upon that celebrated trophy. “Ah! Mrs Joe,” he says, on one of these occasions, as he takes one of her two youngsters on his knee and looks up at the tail. “Your husband captured you by a magnificent accident. There never was a bigger fluke in this world than when the old fraud knocked over that big ‘camel.’”