This had followed--it might have been a coincidence--right upon a terrific thrashing he had administered to Nkombazana, and his awful convulsions had only been allayed by the treatment of a certain _isa.n.u.si_--known to the natives as the Snake-doctor--treatment for which he had to pay pretty heavily lest worse should befall him. But though he frequently abused and snarled at her, he had never laid hand--or stick--upon his princ.i.p.al wife since. Indeed he would gladly have been rid of her at any cost now. He would not have hesitated to make away with her, but that he dared not. He would willingly have sent her back to her people, but it would never do to arouse their hostility by the slur upon her that such a course would imply, and have we not said above that her father was an influential chief? So to that extent Nkombazana remained mistress of the situation.

Bully Rawson went into a large hut, which he used as a trading store, and reaching down a square bottle filled an enamelled iron cup. No "trade" gin was this--liquor trading by the way was not allowed in the Zulu country at that time, but plenty of it was done for all that. No.

This was excellent Hollands, and having poured the liberal libation down his throat he went forth again. There was not much trade doing just then, but he had entered into a contract for the cutting of poles, to be taken to the coast and shipped; for which he had obtained a concession from the local chief. Now, having lighted his pipe, he strolled leisurely through the forest to where the sound of saw and axe told that such work was going on.

Several natives were more or less busily engaged. These were not Zulus, for at that time no Zulu had yet learned "the dignity of labour"--not in his own country at any rate. They were for the most part. Tonga boys from the coast, and, as ill-luck would have it, just as Rawson emerged from the trees, one of them happened to be squatting on the ground taking snuff. His back was towards his fate, nor did any of the others dare to warn him. Suddenly he felt as though a tree had fallen upon him, and the next few moments were spent by his employer in savagely kicking him round and round the clearing, till at last the luckless wretch fell on the ground and bowled for mercy. This he might not have got but that his afflictor became aware of the presence of three tall Zulus, who stood watching the proceedings, a gleam of mingled amus.e.m.e.nt and contempt upon their fine faces.

"Greeting, Inxele!" said one.

Bully Rawson scowled. He resented the familiar use of his native name, instead of the respectful "_'Nkose_." He further resented the sheaf of a.s.segais and small shield which each carried, and which should have been dropped before coming into his camp, or at any rate, while addressing himself. But the Zulu is quick to recognise a blackguard and loth to show him deference, and that this white man was an egregious blackguard as white men went, these were perfectly well aware.

"I see you, _amadoda_," he answered shortly.

"He, there, has a message," said the first who had spoken, indicating the only one of the three who was not head-ringed. "It has travelled from Tegwini." [Durban.]

"Well, what is it?" rejoined the white man, shortly.

"It is here," said the unringed native, producing a small packet, which he carried tied on to the end of a stick. Rawson s.n.a.t.c.hed it eagerly.

It was a sort of oilskin enclosure.

"Now, what the devil can this be?" he said to himself, fairly puzzled.

But the mystery was soon solved. The wrappings being undone, revealed nothing less commonplace that a mere letter--addressed to himself. Yet why should the bronze hue of his forbidding countenance dull to a dirty white as he stared at the envelope? It might have been because he knew that writing well, and had cherished the fond delusion that the writer hadn't the ghost of an idea as to his own whereabouts. What then?

Well, the writer of that letter had power to hang him.

He remembered to give the Zulus snuff out of a large box which he always carried, then while they sat down leisurely to enjoy the same, he tore open the envelope, and that with hands which trembled somewhat. The communication, however, was brevity itself. Thus it ran:

"A friend of mine--name Wyvern--is going into your part, even if he is not already there. Take care of him. Do you hear? _Take care of him_.

"Warren."

Rawson stared at the words while he read them again and again, "Take care of him." Oh, yes, he would do that, he thought to himself with a hideous laugh. Then he fell to wondering what sort of a man this object of Warren's solicitude might be--whether, in fact, he would prove an easy one to "take care of." Well, that, of course, events would show.

Anyway, what was certain was that Warren's wishes had to be attended to by him, Bully Rawson.

Turning to the Zulus he asked about news. Was there any?

Not any, they said. The country was getting more and more disturbed because the English Government could not make up its mind. It made one arrangement to-day, and another took its place to-morrow, and now n.o.body in Zululand knew who was his chief or whether he had any chief at all.

There had been some fighting, they had heard, in Umlandela's country, but even about that there was no certain news.

After a little similar talk they got up and took their leave. Rawson, his mind filled with the untoward turn events had taken, quite forgot to kick or thrash any more of his labourers.

The sun's rays were lengthening, and with a few parting curses to those ill-starred mortals he took his way homeward. The cool shaded forest gloom was pleasant, but his thoughts were not. What he was chiefly concerned about was not the task that Warren had set him to perform.

Oh, dear no. That, indeed, was, if anything, rather a congenial one to a born cut-throat such as Bully Rawson. What concerned him, and that mightily, was that Warren should have located so exactly his whereabouts, for he knew that thenceforward he was that astute pract.i.tioner's unquestionable and blindly obedient slave; and the part of obedient anything, in no wise appealed to the temperament of Bully Rawson. If only he could, on some pretext, inveigle Warren himself up to that part; and with the idea came a conviction of its utter futility.

Warren was one of the sharpest customers this world ever contained, and none knew this better than he did.

Thus engrossed it is hardly surprising that even such a wide-awake bird as himself should remain ignorant of the fact that he was being followed. Yet he was, and that from the time he had started from the wood-cutting camp. Half a dozen lithe, wiry Zulus--all young men--were on his track, moving with cat-like silence and readiness. They were not armed, save with sticks, and these not even the short-handled, formidable k.n.o.b-kerrie; but their errand to the white man was of unmistakable import; and fell withal--to the white man.

Suddenly the latter became aware of their presence, and turned. They were upon him; like hounds upon a quarry. But Bully Rawson, though unarmed, and the while cursing his folly at being found in that helpless state, was no easy victim. He shot out his enormous fist with the power of a battering-ram, and landing the foremost fair on the jaw, then and there dropped him. The second fared no better. But, with the cat-like agility of their race, the others, springing around him on all sides at once--here, there, everywhere--kept outside the range of that terrible fist, until able to get in a telling blow. This was done--and the powerful ruffian dropped in his turn, more than half-stunned, the blood pouring from a wound in the temple. Did that satisfy them? Not a bit of it. They then and there set to work and belaboured his prostrate form with their sticks, uttering a strident hiss with each resounding thud. In short, they very nearly and literally beat him to a jelly--a chastis.e.m.e.nt, indeed, which would probably have spelt death to the ordinary man, and was destined to leave this one in a very sore state for some time to come. Then, helping up their injured comrades, they departed, leaving their victim to get himself round as best he could, or not at all.

You will ask what was the motive for this savage act of retribution.

Some outrage on his part committed upon one of their womenkind? Or, these were relatives of his own wives who had chosen to avenge his ill-treatment of them? Neither.

In this instance Bully Rawson was destined to suffer for an offence of which he was wholly innocent; to wit, the bursting of a gun which he had traded to a petty chief who hailed from a distant part of the country-- for he did a bit of gun-running when opportunity offered. But the old fool had rammed in a double charge--result--his arm blown off; and these six were his sons resolved upon revenge. They dared not kill him--he was necessary to far too powerful a chief for that--though they would otherwise cheerfully have done so; wherefore they had brought with them no deadly weapons, lest they should be carried away, and effectually finish him off. Wherein lay one of life's little ironies. For his many acts of villainy Bully Rawson was destined to escape. For one casualty for which he was in no sense of the word responsible, he got hammered within an inch of his life.

It must not be taken for granted that this ruffian was a fair specimen or sample of the Zulu trader or up-country going man in general, for such was by no means the case. But, on the principle of "black sheep in every flock," it may be stated at once that in this particular flock Bully Rawson was about the blackest of the black.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WHAT HLABULANA REVEALED.

In the quadrangle, or courtyard, known as Ulundi Square, in the Royal Hotel at Durban, two men sat talking. One we already know, the other, a wiry, bronzed, and dark-bearded man of medium height, was known to his acquaintance as Joe Fleetwood, and among the natives as "U' Joe," and he was an up-country trader.

"You did the right thing, Wyvern, when you decided to come up here," the latter was saying, "and in a few months' time"--lowering his voice--"if we pull off this jaunt all right, we need neither of us ever take our jackets off again for the rest of our natural lives."

"Not, eh? Didn't know you could make such a rapid fortune in the native trade."

The other smiled drily.

"Look here, Wyvern. You only landed last night--and a most infernal bucketing you seem to have got on that poisonous bar in doing so. So that we've had no opportunity of having a straight, square talk. We won't have it here--too many doors and windows about for that I propose, therefore, that we get on a tram and run down to the back beach--we'll have it all to ourselves there. First of all, though, we'll have these gla.s.ses refilled. I don't believe in starting dry. Boy!"

A turbaned Indian waiter glided up, and reappeared in a moment with two long tumblers.

"That's good," exclaimed Fleetwood, having poured down more than half of the sparkling contents of his. "Durban is one of the thirstiest places I've ever struck."

Not much was said as they took their way through the bustle of the streets, bright with the gaudy clothes worn by the Indian population, whose thin, chattering voices formed as great a contrast to the deep, sonorous tones of the manly natives of the land as did their respective owners in aspect and physique.

"By Jove! it brings back old times, seeing these head-ringed chaps about again," said Wyvern, turning to look at a particularly fine specimen of them that had just stalked past. "I wonder if I'd like to go over all our campaigning ground again."

"Our jaunt this time will take us rather off it. I say--that time we ran the gauntlet through to Kambula, from that infernal mountain. It was something to remember, eh?"

Wyvern looked grave.

"One might run as narrow a shave as that again, but it's a dead cert we couldn't run a narrower one," he said.

"Not much. I say, though. You've seen some rather different times since then. Let on, old chap--is that _her_ portrait you've got stuck up in Number 3 Ulundi Square? Because, if so, you're in luck's way, by jingo you are."

"You're quite right, Fleetwood, as to both ventures. Only a third ingredient is unfortunately needed to render the luck complete, and that is a sufficiency of means."

"That all? Well, then, buck up, old chap, because I'd lay a very considerable bet you'll find that difficulty got over by the time you next set foot in hot--and particularly thirsty--Durban."

Wyvern looked up keenly. Something in the other's tone struck him as strange.

"What card have you got up your sleeve, Joe?" he said. "You let out something about 'a few months' a little while ago. Well now, I may not know much about the native trade, but I have a devilish shrewd idea that a man doesn't scare up a fortune at it in that time."

"You're right there--quite right--and that's the very thing we've come out to chat about--and sniff the ozone at the same time. It'll keep till we get there. Here's our tram."

These two were great friends. Fleetwood, indeed, was p.r.o.ne to declare that he owed his life to the other's deftness and coolness on one occasion when they had been campaigning together; a statement, however, which Wyvern unhesitatingly and consistently pooh-poohed. Anyhow, there was nothing that Fleetwood would not have done for him; and having lit upon the marvellous discovery which was behind his sanguine predictions of immediate wealth, he had written at once to Wyvern to come up and share it.

A fresh breeze stirred the blue of the waves, as the milky surf came tumbling up the pebbly beach with thunderous roar. Out in the roadstead vessels were riding to their anchors, prominent among them the blue-white hull and red funnel of the big mail steamer which had brought Wyvern round the day before. On the right, as they faced seaward, beyond the white boil of surf on the bar, rose the bush-clad Bluff, capped by its lighthouse, and behind, and stretching away on the other hand, the line of scrub-grown sandhills, beyond which rose the wooded slopes of the Berea.