His cheerful nature was little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance passed through his brain, and in a mellow voice he sang:—
> “How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
> And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
> Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
> And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.
> The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
> The moss-covered bucket that
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. However, we’ll be even with him yet. He’s not far in front, and we may spoil his little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship.”
By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled.
Tom Lane knew the place, and they passed straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular, grass-thatched huts, until they reached the large *kotla*, or enclosure, in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani’s own residence stood. Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they passed by an open entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met their gaze.
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.
This white man, a huge, broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure, notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than Puff-adder Brown himself.
Bulking in size and stature far above the slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple assemblage of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.
“By George!
“Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats,” replied the chief.
“And how much are you to receive for this?”
“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.
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.”
He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with that paper.”
Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his hand.
“I will not sign the paper to-day,” said the chief.
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.
During his five years’ career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader. Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe’s vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision.
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.
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.
His fists rattled upon his opponent’s face and about his ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and hopelessly defeated.
Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of which they had never before seen. Their “ughs!”
and ejaculations indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed rather pleased than otherwise. 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. He told him that after the vile poisoning incident at the fountain—an attempt which might very well have murdered a whole expedition—any return to British Bechuanaland would result in his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart.
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.
Finally, at the close of a week, after the endless discussion and argument so dear to the native African, Tapinyani set his royal mark, duly attested and approved by the headmen and elders of his tribe, to a grant of 300,000 acres of pastoral land—part of that huge and unexplored tract of country over which he hunted and nominally held sway.
The considerations for this grant were a yearly payment of 100 pounds, a dozen Martini-Henry rifles with suitable ammunition, a “salted” horse worth 90 pounds, six bottles of French brandy, a suit of store clothes, a case of Eau de Cologne, and a quantity of beads and trinkets.
These terms may, to the uninitiated mind, seem not highly advantageous to the native side; yet, measured by the considerations in other and far vaster South African concessions in recent years, and remembering that the land granted was at present waterless, remote, and almost totally unexplored, they were fair and equitable.
This business settled, Tapinyani now turned his thoughts to the trial of his new horse and rifles.
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.
The horsemen are still nearly three hundred yards in rear of the nearest of the troop. “Jump off, lads, and shoot!” roars Tom Lane, as he reins up his nag suddenly, springs off, and puts up his rifle. The other two men instantly follow his example. Two barrels are fired by Lane, but the distance is great, that desperate gallop has made him shaky, and his bullets go wide.
Hume Wheler, quicker down from his horse than his friend, fires next at the old bull, lagging last; he, too, misses clean, and shoves another cartridge into his single sporting Martini. But now even the old bull is close upon the forest, into whose depths the rest of the troop are disappearing, and he, too, is within easy hail of safety.
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.
Joe was quickly by the side of the great dappled giraffe. Taking off and waving his hat, he turned his face to his friends and gave a loud hurrah. Then, first whipping out his hunting-knife and cutting off the long tail by the root, he sat himself down upon the dead beast’s shoulder to await their coming. At that instant a strange resurrection happened.
In that terrible fall Joe Granton was hurled upon his head, and, as his comrades rode anxiously up, lay there apparently as void of life as his gigantic quarry. In his hand he still clutched desperately the tail upon which he had so firmly set his mind.
From the shock of that fall Joe Granton sustained heavy concussion of the brain, and had to be carried with much care and difficulty back to Tapinyani’s town.
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.
