Cobus has resigned the lead, and the two friends stalk in with the greatest care together. At last they peer through a small opening.

What a scene lies before them! A troop of at least three hundred mighty buffalo, bulls, cows, and calves, some feeding, some drinking, some rolling in the shallow lagoon, some playfully b.u.t.ting at one another.

All, utterly unconscious of impending danger, stand there within a radius of two hundred yards; the nearest of them are within fifty. A more inspiring prospect hunter's eye never beheld.

Numbers of the weaver birds (_Bubalornis erythrorhyncus_), always found a.s.sociating with buffalo, are here, some picking busily at the parasites on the great creatures' backs; others flitting hither and thither, chattering noisily, intent on business or pleasure. Even the sharp weaver birds detect no enemy--much less their allies the buffaloes. A few white egrets, apparently as fearless of the great quadrupeds as the buffalo birds, add beauty to the scene. Some of these charming herons, too, are perched upon the buffalo, their snowy plumes contrasting sharply with the sombre hides of their gigantic friends. Birds and quadrupeds alike are all void of suspicion upon this bright, quiet morning in the far African wilderness.

Having taken in with an eager glance or two this wonderful picture, the two men and their gun-bearers crouch down behind the thick screen of bush and wait. It seems half an hour to them. At length, in about five minutes, two ma.s.sive old bulls, grim, heavy-fronted, and carrying immense horns, nearly devoid of hair, short in the legs, yet of tremendous bulk, come feeding past within easy range. The two men glance at one another, and with a nod single out their victims.

On a sudden their heavy rifles roar out together. One of the bulls falls instantly to the shot; the other staggers, but plunges on. There is a terrific commotion among the herd. The great beasts all gallop left-handed, seeking an outlet in the ring of bush. Through the lagoon they splash, driving the water in ma.s.ses of spray about them, and then away they rave through gra.s.s and undergrowth, making the earth thunder beneath them. Bill, whose buffalo has for the moment escaped, selects a fat cow, and with two bullets well planted brings her down. The vast troop has pa.s.sed away, and they now emerge to inspect their quarry.

The dead buffaloes are fine specimens, and in high condition and, leaving Tatenyan behind to begin the skinning and cutting-up process, the two Englishmen now proceed together with Cobus to take up the blood-spoor of the wounded bull and finish him off. He carries a magnificent pair of horns--a champion head--which Bill yearns to possess himself of.

Cobus, with the marvellous skill of the native African hunter, quickly separates the trail of the wounded beast from its scores of fellows, and presently, as they enter the bush, bears suddenly to the left. The stricken brute has turned him aside from the battle, and the main body of the troop have plunged right-handed through the bush to seek shelter in the dense reed-beds not far away.

At first the blood-spoor, which is now easily followed, takes them through fairly open bush, in which they can see about them without much difficulty. So far all is well. A wounded buffalo is, as all hunters know, the most dangerous and tricky beast in Africa, and in thickish bush his pursuer must needs follow him yard by yard with his life in his hand. Presently the spoor takes them by a narrow game-path through impenetrable th.o.r.n.y covert six or eight feet high. Patches of bright red blood show that the buffalo is bleeding freely, and from the lungs; he cannot go far at this rate. Cobus, who has led the way hitherto, looks at the dark wall of bush on either hand, indicates the deep shade thrown here and there, and the possibility of dangerous ambush at any moment, and shakes his head. He likes the job little enough, and he is perfectly right. To go on is to risk a violent death, and there is little chance of escape from a charge in such confined quarters. But to many Englishmen the constant spice of clanger adds greatly to the charm of sport in Africa. Bill quietly pulls Cobus behind him, knits his brow, and prepares to creep forward. Ralph in his turn supersedes Cobus, and dogs the heels of his friend. It looks like a nasty business, and he wishes them all well out of it; but he can't now go back on his chum.

Breathlessly, cautiously, they pick their way down the narrow game-path.

The dense thicket shuts out every trace of the cool outer breeze; the sun beats down hotly upon their heads; lightly clad though they are, the sweat starts freely from their bodies. Silently they move on. They turn an angle or two, pa.s.s safely some dark shadows in the bush-wall, and then, without a fiftieth part of a second of warning, from a piece of bush where you might swear a steinbok could not have hidden itself, a great dark form comes charging forth, with eyes of fire, blood-dripping nostrils, and head well up.

In an instant the revengeful beast has cleared the angle of bush where it had lain silently biding its time, and is almost on top of Bill.

Bill fires one shot,--he has no time for more,--and then, to save himself, springs as far to the left as possible. In vain! His bullet glances harmlessly from the tremendous frontal horn of the buffalo without stopping or even injuring the brute. Another half instant and the great grim beast has taken terrible revenge.

There is a single lightning-like sweep of the heavy head, a dull, sickening thud, and Bill is sent crashing into the th.o.r.n.y thicket yards away.

The buffalo stands in devilish wrath for a brief moment, a terrible picture, meditating its next attack; its left chest is exposed.

Ralph instantly seizes his only hope of salvation and poor Bill's. His eight-bore rifle is at his shoulder, the loud report roars out, and the bull staggers to earth, sore-stricken yet not vanquished. Fiercely he struggles for his feet again, the blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils with the tremendous exertion. In the next instant another bullet, planted in the centre of his forehead, just below the rugged ma.s.s of horn, ends his career, and he breathes out his last with that fierce complaining bellow peculiar to the death-throe of his race.

Ralph and the native turn at once to Bill, lying senseless and bleeding, deeply embedded in the frightful ma.s.s of th.o.r.n.y bush. It is a tough task even to extricate him; but after some minutes' hewing and hacking with their hunting knives it is at last accomplished, and the victim is laid tenderly on the smooth game-path.

Alas! his injuries are terrible. Several ribs are displaced and smashed on the right side; there is a deep jagged hole beneath; and the sharp horn, driven with the mighty strength of an old buffalo bull, has penetrated far into the lung. So much is at once apparent, and it looks sadly as if Bill's hours are numbered.

It is a shocking blow for Ralph. Who could have dreamed that that strong, active man, not yet at his prime, full of pluck, enterprise, and a perennial cheeriness--but ten short minutes before cracking some half-whispered joke to his friend and servant--could now be lying, a battered, senseless rag of humanity, in his comrade's arms?

As well as they can, the two sound men bind up the gaping wound, and stanch the bleeding, and then, between them, tenderly they carry the still senseless hunter back to camp.

It was but a twenty minutes' journey, slowly as they progressed, yet to Ralph it seemed long hours.

At last they laid the wounded man gently upon his blankets, beneath the shade of the big thorn tree, washed and carefully bound up his dreadful hurt, poured brandy between his poor bloodstained lips, and then--there was nothing else to be done--awaited the event. It was too far to attempt to convey him across the river to the wagons; the slightest movement greatly increased the bleeding from the mouth, and suffocation seemed imminent. Ralph sent Tatenyan across in a canoe for more brandy; for the rest of that weary, hot African day he could only watch and wait.

Bill lay senseless far into the afternoon, breathing out, as it seemed, slowly and very painfully his remaining stock of life. Towards sunset, he opened his eyes feebly, looked about him, and whispered faintly to Ralph, now bending over him with his eyes full of irrestrainable tears, "Where's the bull?"

"He's dead, old chap. I settled him after he struck you. Don't talk much; I'm afraid you're very badly hurt."

"Yes," went on Bill, "he's about finished me, I think. I was an idiot to follow him into that bush. Cobus was right. Well, I've paid dearly for him. Take his head home, old chap, and hang it up. I don't think I shall see this through; and when you look at the horns, you will think of me, and the good days we had together in the veldt."

"Don't, don't, Bill," said Ralph. "For G.o.d's sake don't talk like that.

Who knows?--we may pull you through yet. Lie still, and don't talk, there's a dear old chap."

"My head is clear now," whispered Bill, "and it mayn't last long. My affairs are all right at home. If anything happens, see my lawyers.

Give my love to Laura (his sister) and Aunt Marion; tell them I thought of them at the end. I feel faint... give me some brandy." Ralph poured strong brandy and water into the sufferer's mouth, and he revived again.

"One more word, old chap," went on Bill. "I know I am near the end. I feel it. I shall soon know that great secret we spoke of. _Remember this_,"--he raised his left hand as he spoke, and feebly took hold of Ralph's flannel shirt sleeve,--"If I can tell you hereafter, or let you know, _I will. Don't forget! Don't forget_! If I can... It's dark, isn't it? and I'm very sleepy. Hold my hand, dear old Ralph...

Good-bye. If I don't see you..."

Bill's head fell back a little; his eyes closed again; a little blood trickled from his lips; his breathing came and went with yet more effort. Again Ralph administered more brandy to his dying friend. It was of little use. Bill never rallied more. In half an hour the end had come, and Ralph, still holding his friend's hand within his own, knew that Bill had entered the unknown land, and that he himself had lost the best and bravest comrade that ever entered the hunting veldt.

Ralph took his friend's body across the river next morning, and buried it reverently beneath a big giraffe-acacia tree by the wagons, and set up a wooden cross in that lone wilderness. He took with him, too, the great horns of the buffalo by which Bill had come to his untimely end.

Then slowly and painfully he made his way down-country, the saddest, loneliest man in Africa, and presently reached England.

It is some years ago now, but Ralph has never forgotten that last scene and Bill's impressive words. Often, whether he be in the far wilderness--to which he still periodically returns--or at home, in the park, or at his club, or in his own sanctum, surrounded by many a goodly spoil of the chase, he thinks of his comrade's last words, and sees before him every incident of that dying sunset beyond the Okavango River.

But of the Great Secret,--of that mystery which Bill so earnestly desired to pierce,--Ralph has never yet heard.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE STORY OF JACOBA STEYN.

Jacoba Steyn lives with her brother Hans and his wife and numerous family on a remote farm far up in Waterberg, to the north-west of the Transvaal. She is, although now well on in middle age, a spinster--a rather remarkable circ.u.mstance among the women of the South African Dutch. For Jacoba is, as Dutch Afrikanders go, not uncomely, and few Boer women of her looks and condition in life escape, or desire to escape, from the joys and cares of matrimony. You would never think, to look at Jacoba Steyn nowadays, that there was much of romance or sentiment in her nature. She is now a stout spinster of forty-seven, thick and square of figure, and, as she takes her _kapje_ off, you may note the grey threads showing thick in her dull brown hair. Yet Jacoba cherishes within her broad breast a very real and very tender romance, as all her relations and some few of her friends know.

Thirty years ago there came into the life of this staid, sober-minded Boer woman a bright gleam of pa.s.sion, which ever since has illumined her quiet existence. That romance will never fade from her heart. Its tender memory shapes and tinges almost every act of her working, everyday life. It softens those somewhat rude asperities of manner which the average Boer housewife usually exhibits. It gives that kindly content which shines forth from the blue eyes and upon the homely features of spinster Jacoba. All the ragged, rough, and noisy crew of children--there are nine of them--of her brother Hans call in Tant Jacoba for the settlement of quarrels and the drying of tears. Her renown as a peacemaker has a far wider field than that of her somewhat sharp-tongued sister-in-law, the mother of all this unruly brood. Until ten years ago many of the neighbouring Boers of Waterberg--bachelors and widowers--still cherished the hope and belief that Jacoba Steyn was to be induced into the bonds of matrimony. Jacoba was still on the right side of middle age; she was far from ill-looking in the eyes of a Dutch farmer; a certain air of refinement, peculiar to herself, distinguished her from all her fellows. And she had flocks and herds of her own, running upon her brother's veldt, as well as some good tobacco "lands,"

which yielded no mean profit each year. The few cows and goats set apart for Jacoba in her infancy, according to the ancient patriarchal Boer plan, had increased and multiplied. Jacoba Steyn's stock always had luck, and throve handsomely; and so at the age of thirty-seven she was still looked upon as an excellent match. But Jacoba had throughout her life steadily refused all offers of marriage. It was very exasperating to her family in her younger days, and a complete mystery to the Boer men who knew little of her earlier life. Gradually it dawned upon the minds of these slow-witted Waterberg Dutchmen that in real sober truth Jacoba Steyn was not to be won, that she was vowed to spinsterhood, and that some unaccountable attachment of her girlish days prevented her from ever accepting another man's attentions.

When she had reached the age of forty, her youngest brother, Hans, with whom and whose family she had, since the death of her parents, always lived, ceased to urge upon her to take a husband. It was hopeless, and, after all, Jacoba's cattle, goats, and savings would be a great help to the children at some future time. And so, at the age of forty-seven, Jacoba had outlived the attentions of bucolic swains, and the strong and even forcible recommendations of her own family, and was left to pursue unmolested the tenor of her quiet existence. She helped Lijsbet, her brother Hans's wife, with her unwieldy family, performed more than her share of the household duties, and wore always a look of quiet happiness upon her broad, pleasant face. Twice or thrice a year she trekked with the family to _Nachtmaal_ (Communion) at Pretoria. After all, Jacoba was a woman, and even she, weaned though she was from the hopes and fears and commoner frets of the world, could not find it in her heart to deny herself the pleasure of a few days in the Boer capital, the sight of shops and _winkels_ [stores] and English folk, the joys of attendance in the Dutch Reformed Church, and some little intercourse with the _predikant_ (pastor). The _predikant_ knew something of Jacoba's strange story; he was a man of some refinement and much sympathy; and it did the quiet Dutchwoman good to have a talk with the minister she had known so long. Sometimes on the calm Sunday evenings up in Waterberg, when the cattle and goats are kraaled for the night and the still veldt lies golden beneath the kiss of sunset, when the bush _koorhaan_ [bustards] are playing their half-hour of strange aerial pranks and evolutions yonder, just outside the dark fringe of bush, Jacoba wanders from the low homestead and sits up above the Falala River, dreaming upon an old, old tale. That tale was once full of mingled memories-- bitter-sweet. You may tell now, from the clear, tender look on the good woman's face, that her thoughts are mainly pleasant ones. Time and she have healed, or nearly healed, her once bruised heart. Jacoba's tale is a simple one. Yet it has its romantic side. It is not widely known even in Waterberg, and it may perhaps be worth the telling.

Jacoba Steyn's father was one of those st.u.r.dy emigrant Boers who crossed the Vaal River towards 1837, defeated that terror of the north, Moselikatse, and his fierce Matabele warriors, drove them beyond the Limpopo, and took possession of the vast countries now known as the Orange Free State and Transvaal. Jan Steyn was, until the verge of old age, one of those restless frontier-men who are never content to settle down entirely to the pastoral life of the average Dutch farmer. He was a great hunter, and during the first ten years of his career beyond the Vaal he found almost as much occupation as he needed within the boundaries of the newly formed republic. But after that time elephants began to grow scarce within the Transvaal, and the ivory-hunters had to push their way farther afield. Moselikatse's country--which we now call Matabeleland--was a sealed book for the Boers; the old Zulu lion seldom allowed them to enter it, and then only on payment of an extortionate tribute. Some of the hunters gradually thrust their way through Zoutpansberg eastward into the low countries (rich in game, but terribly feverish and unhealthy), towards Delagoa Bay; others gained permission from the Bamangwato chief, Sekhomi, and followed the ivory into the wild deserts towards Lake N'gami and the Zambesi. Among these last was to be found Jan Steyn. Jan had settled, after the final defeat of Moselikatse and his hordes, in that magnificent district of the western Transvaal now known as Marico. He had had hard times during the war with the Matabele, and had lost more than half his cattle. However, he consoled himself by selecting a 6,000 acre farm of rich and well-watered land, which he appropriately christened "_Beter laat dan Nooit_," ("Better late than never"). His friend Jan Viljoen, the famous elephant-hunter, was his nearest neighbour. Viljoen had named his farm "_Var Genoog_,"

("Far Enough"), not by any means a bad name for a trekking farmer who had wandered in search of a home from the Knysna, on the extreme southern littoral of Cape Colony, to the far Marico River.

Well, Jan Steyn built himself a house of Kaffir bricks, beaconed off his farm, and settled down for a year or two to get things into shape.

After that time the wandering spirit overcame him again, and, leaving his farm in charge of a near relation, he put his family into the big tent-wagon and trekked away each season of African winter into the hunting veldt. Jan Viljoen and other neighbours followed the same plan.

Elephants were inordinately plentiful, tusks were magnificently heavy, and a good trade in ivory could, in those days, be done with native chiefs. Jan Steyn's wife and family--six in all--always accompanied him on these expeditions. The tough _vrouw_ refused to be left behind, and where she went the family went also. So that from her earliest years the little Jacoba remembered always the strange, wild life of the hunting veldt, the voice of lions and hyaenas by night, the great camp-fire, the return of the hunters laden with the hard-won spoils of chase, the dark groups of Kaffirs carrying in the long gleaming tusks of ivory. Like her mother, Jacoba as she neared her teens, could load a gun, and upon occasion, even knew how to discharge it.

By the year 1855, the Transvaal elephant-hunters were trekking very far afield in search of ivory. Livingstone's discovery of Lake N'gami in 1849 had opened up a new region, teeming with the great tusk-bearing pachyderms, and a few Boer hunters began to filter gradually into the deserts towards the Lake and the Chobe River. Among these were Jan Viljoen, Piet Jacobs, and Jan Steyn. And so it happened that in 1859 the Steyn family for the fourth season had reached the south bank of the Botletli, better known as the Lake River, which runs south-east from Lake N'gami.

They had had a terrible struggle across the thirst-land lying between Shoshong, the Bamangwato Stadt, and the Lake River. More than once it seemed that they must have left their wagons behind in the desert; but they had somehow battled through, with the loss of three good trek oxen.

It was within an hour of sundown when they rose the little swelling of the plain, just where you strike the river, and drew up their wagons by the big thorn tree for the night N'gamiland hunters will know that tree; it bears the initials of most of the wanderers who have pa.s.sed that way.

Jacoba Steyn was but a girl of seventeen then, but she will never, to her dying hour, forget the scene that lay before her. Boer women are not, as a rule, impressionable; they give little heed to the sights that surround them, and have no eye for the picturesque. But this evening, of all others, will, for a particular reason, remain imprinted deep in the tablets of Jacoba's remembrance. Below the wagons lay the Lake River, now somewhat shrunk within its low banks, and teeming with bird life. Just here the tall reeds had been burnt down, and there was a clear view. Flamingoes, ibises, coots, great gaudy geese, thousands of wild-duck, widgeon, and teal thronged the shallows and darkened the river surface. Elegant jacanas flitted brilliantly upon trembling islets of floating weed. Noisy spur-winged plovers clamoured with sharp metallic voices. Aloft soared a great fishing-eagle or two. And from afar, following one another slowly and solemnly in even, single-file procession, long lines of monstrous pelicans filled the sky. Their soft, melancholy whistling sounded clear, even amid the lowing of the parched oxen, now frantic and well-nigh dead with thirst. To the right the vast reed-beds of the Komadau marsh filled the view for miles. In front, outlined clear against the flaming sunset, stood up here and there a few tall palm trees, marking the course of the river. Beyond these the dry plains stretched to the north and west in illimitable monotony.

Just beyond where the Steyns had outspanned was the wagon of another traveller. And as Jacoba Steyn stood, stretching herself a little after the long wagon journey, and gazing about her, the owner of it walked up from the river. He was an Englishman, that was perfectly clear. His smart, erect carriage, short, neatly trimmed dark beard and moustache, and the cut of his breeches, gaiters, and boots, at once proclaimed the fact. He looked to be about the middle height; he was strong and well set up; an air of careless grace sat well upon him. He had dark and very handsome grey eyes, and a most pleasant smile, and his face, throat, and bare arms were deeply tanned by the sun. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat for head-gear, and his grey flannel shirt was open at the throat, and had the sleeves rolled up. On his shoulder rested a double-barrelled shot-gun. At his heels followed a pointer dog, and a young native boy, the latter carrying several couple of duck and geese. As the stranger approached the wagons and doffed his hat, something in Jacoba's heart told her that she had never seen so completely good-looking a man. She stared hard with all her eyes as the Englishman advanced towards her. As he drew near and held out his hand, and said, in a clear, pleasant voice, "_Dag, juffrow_," Jacoba's eyes fell beneath the steady gaze of his, and she whispered bashfully, as she put her palm into his, "_Dag, meneer_."

That, as well as I can describe it, is the picture that even now, thirty years after, is constantly before the mind's eye of Jacoba Steyn.

Captain Meredith had soon introduced himself to the Steyn family. He was heartily received; for the Transvaal Boers, even in those days, had no grudge against individual Englishmen. Their dislike was for the British Government and British officialism, which, from their point of view, had driven them to trek from the old colony. While the oxen and horses were being watered at the river, a bottle of the captain's brandy was produced, and Dutch and Englishman pledged one another in _soupjis_ of right "French."

Meanwhile, the Steyns proceeded to unburden their wagons and prepare for the night. The sailcloth was spread between the two wagons; Jacoba's fowls and chickens, and her cat Tina and the kittens were set loose.

The captain invited them all to his wagon to supper. He had the flesh of a fat cow eland all ready, and it would save much trouble to the tired trekkers if they took their evening meal with him. In an hour's time they all sat down together, a jovial party, to sup by the light of two blazing camp-fires. The _Kaptein_, as the Steyns already called Meredith, was an English officer spending his leave on a hunting trip.