Claverton turned to him in amazement.

"My dear McShane, what _do_ you suppose I came out here for to-night?"

he said, with a sinister laugh. "Not to play, did you?"

"Well, it's lucky Jack Kafir took the throuble off your hands, me boy, or it's on your way to the Orange River ye'd have to be now, and meself, too, likely enough. As it is it'll be murdherin' awkward."

"Why?"

"Well, what possesses three fellows to go riding off into the _veldt_ at night--eh? An' then when the row ye had this morning comes to lake out, sure won't they be puttin' two and two together, anyway?"

"Nothing can be proved, and if it could, I don't care. Who's to prove that there was any exchange of shots, at all; and there's no mistake about that pot-leg that rid the earth of the greatest blackguard it ever held being _not_ a revolver ballet," replied Claverton, in a hard, pitiless tone.

"There's a good deal in that," a.s.sented the other.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the camp, and the news spread like wildfire that Truscott had been shot by the Kafirs, the other two barely escaping; and before long some one appended the rider that Claverton was mortally wounded in trying to rescue him, which report reaching that worthy's ears, he received it with a sardonic grin, and said nothing. And by a curious piece of luck, the row between the two had not got wind, the spectators of it, terrible gossips by nature, fearing consequences to themselves should it become known that they had stood calmly looking on while their officer got a thrashing, deemed it wise to hold their peace.

"Half an inch more, me boy, and ye'd likely as not have lost an arm,"

said McShane, as he bound up a jagged and furrowed wound just below Claverton's shoulder. "It's nothing to spake of now, as long as ye keep quiet; but if ye don't thur'll be the divil to pay."

The operation finished the patient turned in, and slept a heavy, dreamless sleep for thirteen hours.

In the morning a party was despatched to bring in Truscott's body. It told its own tale; for in addition to being horribly cut about, after the time-honoured custom of the n.o.ble savage, the wound which had caused his death gaped wide and ghastly, bearing witness, as his late enemy had said, that it had been inflicted by no revolver bullet, even if the bit of pot-leg, which resembled the slug from an elephant gnu, had not been found. Everything belonging to the unfortunate man had been carried off--his horse, arms, and ammunition, even most of his clothing--indeed, when the expedition saw the spoors of the Kafirs all about the spot, the only wonder existing in their minds was that the other two had managed to escape. So far good; and it was not until long after that the faintest rumour of a duel having taken place began to leak out.

Meanwhile, we will return to another personage whom we have lost sight of for a s.p.a.ce, our friend Sharkey, to wit, who, almost immediately upon Claverton's return to camp, had been reported missing, the general impression being that he had deserted, and, as men could not be spared just then, no search was made for him. But for once that interesting individual had been maligned. It happened that morning that the attention of a patrol returning to camp was attracted by the sight of a cloud of _aasvogels_ hovering above the bush. More of the great carrion birds rose, flapping their huge white pinions and soaring leisurely away, and then the reason of the gathering was made plain. There, in the long gra.s.s, half devoured by these hideous scavengers, lay the remains of the missing man, Vargas Smith, _alias_ Sharkey, _soi-disant_ Cuban gentleman, late corporal in Truscott's Levy. Though the body was horribly torn, yet it was evident that the man had met his death from a couple of a.s.segai wounds, one of which must have pierced his heart.

And this is how it came about. When Xuvani, having safely conducted his charge within the lines of the latter's own people--a service which the people aforesaid repaid by opening fire upon both of them, as we have seen--he disappeared; that is to say, he dodged down behind the bushes, and half running, half crawling, rapidly made good his retreat. And he would have made it good, but for the fact that one man had caught sight of his manoeuvres and was determined he should not. This was our friend Sharkey, who was on the extreme outskirts of the column, and who, anxious to have the fun all to himself, started off at a run to take up a position in a certain narrow place through which he judged--and judged rightly--that the Kafir would be almost certain to pa.s.s; when he could shoot him at his leisure.

But alas for the uncertainty of human calculations. The ex-cattle-herd of Seringa Vale was far too old a bird to be caught in any such trap as this--moreover, he had obtained just one glimpse of his enemy running through the bush to waylay him, and his eyes glared as he broke into a short, silent laugh of contempt. Meanwhile, Sharkey, having ensconced himself in a snug corner, waited and listened, gun in hand, ready to give his quarry the contents of a heavy charge of buckshot in the back as he ran past. But somehow the said quarry didn't appear, and the watcher began to grow uneasy. Slowly and cautiously he put out his head. Then, immediately above him, sounded a fiendish chuckle which curdled his blood, and before he had time to turn, much less bring his gun to bear, the Kafir sprang upon him like a tiger-cat and, quick as lightning, with two strokes of his powerful arm stabbed him twice through the heart. The mulatto fell, stone dead, with scarce a groan, and Xuvani, wrenching off his ammunition-belt and picking up his gun, which lay in the gra.s.s, trotted away with a sardonic grin upon his rugged features. He had done a first-rate stroke of business; slain a foe, and possessed himself of a fairly good fire-arm and some ammunition--the acme of a Kafir's desire.

Thus by an unaccountable turn in the wheel of Fate, the two conspirators met their deaths on the same day; and both, moreover, through the indirect agency of the very man against whose life they had conspired.

When Claverton opened his eyes on awaking from his heavy sleep, they met those of George Payne, who was sitting opposite him, watching him intently.

"Hallo, George! What brings you up here? Oh-h!"

For he had forgotten his wounded shoulder, and, starting up suddenly on that elbow, an agonised groan was the result.

"To look after you--and you seem rather to want it," replied the other, gravely.

Claverton lay back for a minute with closed eyes, and in racking pain; for he was more seriously hurt than the good-natured doctor would have had him believe. No compunction entered his mind as his thoughts recurred to the affair of last night. Why should it? he reasoned. They had met in fair fight, and he had certainly given the other every chance. If any one tried to rob him of his life, all the world would hold him justified in defending it to the uttermost. This man had tried to rob him of what he valued ten times more than his life, so he had been more than justified in defending that to the uttermost. And the agglomeration of frightful perils through which he had just pa.s.sed, were indirectly owing to this man's agency. Moreover, when all was said and done, _he_ had not shot him. He had intended to, certainly, but the Kafirs had saved him the trouble and the risk by shooting him instead, by shooting them both, in fact; for all the world like in the case of two small boys indulging in fisticuffs, and a fond parent or stern preceptor staying hostilities by impartially cuffing the pair of them.

And, when viewed in this light, the affair struck him as so comical, that he burst into a laugh.

There was a queer look in Payne's eyes as he rose, and, going outside, intently studied the weather for a moment, apparently, that is, for, in reality, he wanted to make sure of not being heard--and then returned.

"How did the affair go off?" he asked, shortly.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Yes. That Irish fellow told me a yarn about your being attacked; but it won't wash, you know," and he winked.

"Fact--upon my oath!"

"And you didn't do for friend R.T.?"

"Devil a bit! I meant to; but the n.i.g.g.e.rs were too sharp for us. They winged me into the bargain, as you see."

"Then _he_ didn't pink you?"

"Confound it, no. The n.i.g.g.e.rs did. It's about the queerest thing, I suppose, that ever happened."

"It is," a.s.sented Payne, lighting his pipe.

Claverton could see that the other only half believed him, but he didn't care.

Payne smoked on in silence for a few moments. He appeared to be intently contemplating a chip of wood which lay on the floor, and which he was poking at with a riding-crop. At length he said:

"Have you any idea what brought me here?"

"H'm. A horse, most probably."

"You're a sharp fellow, Arthur Claverton," said Payne, deliberately.

"Now don't you go and act like a fool. Mark my words. Unless you want to be the death of a certain young lady--I mean it, mind," and his voice sank to a great seriousness, "for that cursed telegram was nearly the death of her--the sooner you get on a horse and go and exhibit your ornamental visage in my town establishment, the better. Now don't be a fool--d'you hear?"

The advice seemed needed, for at that moment Claverton gained at a bound the door of the tent, where he stood bellowing for Sam.

"Blazes! I'm forgetting. He isn't here. What can we do?" he said, helplessly.

"But he is here," was the imperturbable reply, and simultaneously that faithful servitor entered, grinning with delight at seeing his master again, and firing off a tremendous congratulation in the Zulu tongue.

His master cut him ruthlessly short, however.

"Sam, take that bit of paper," tossing him a fragment, on which he had hastily pencilled a few words, "and ride as if the devil were chevvying you, till you pull up at the telegraph office in 'King.' Now off you go. The road's quite safe, isn't it? Can't help it if it isn't. Take my horse and start at once, and wait there till I join you."

"Yeh bo, 'Nkos!" said the obedient Sam. His heart was in his errand, for he well knew the destination of the message he was to send.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A VOICE OUT OF THE PAST.

"Safe."

Only one little word of four letters, and yet to Lilian Strange it seems just all the difference between death and life; and the great spidery characters in which that one little word is scribbled across the slip of red-brown paper which she holds in her trembling hand, are fairer in her eyes than the most tasteful of gold-engrossed illumination. At times, during the last few days, she has marvelled at the bare possibility of existence under the circ.u.mstances; and now, this morning, as she gazes upon the contents of the telegram which has just been handed to her, and which she has hardly had strength enough to open, so awful the apprehension of what it might disclose--the relief is almost too great.

"_Safe_."

Only one word, but it is from himself; his own hand penned that message, which in its brevity is worth to her a column of detail at second hand.