harley greenoak for once in his life had committed an error of judgment. he had quite reckoned on the possibility of being followed, even as he knew that every step of his way had been dogged from the moment he had left the settlement. but the possibility of a formidable and cleverly devised ambush being prepared for him in front, he had somehow or other quite overlooked. so when he turned over his horse to mantisa with instructions to take it to a point agreed upon and await him there, he was, of course, in complete ignorance of the trap into which his auxiliary was about to fall. even then, if mantisa had carried out his instructions to the letter, instead of taking a way of his own because it was a little shorter, he need not have fallen into the trap at all.
greenoak’s object in getting rid of his horse for a time was that he was going into exceedingly broken and rugged country, in parts of which he could not ride at all. a led horse would be a serious impediment, hampering him at every step, to say nothing of the repeated plungings and stumblings of the animal among the rocks and stones being nearly as good as a bugle for all purposes of telling undesirable ears near and far that he was there. again, it might neigh on occasion, which would serve the same purpose.
now he struck off at a tangent from his former line of route, and, after some hours of steady walking, got among the broken precipitous ground which overhung the river. rising from far beneath, he could hear its swirl and murmur. further down he struck, his labours doubled by his carefulness to avoid any and every sound. for sound travels far on a still night, more especially on a river bank.
he looked about for a place wherein to ensconce himself so that he could see without being seen, and soon found one that answered the purpose so exactly that it might have been made to order. it was a depression overhung by a great rock, and, lying snugly, with his gaze just over the tip of a hollow, he could command a full view of the river drift, while himself invisible from above.
and now it was as well he had had that long sleep in matamzima’s hut, for the very restfulness of this place after hours of hard walking rendered even his iron frame lax to the point of drowsiness. but it was not far to dawn now.
the stillness was absolute, hardly the cry of bird or beast awoke to break it. the loom of the kei hills was well-nigh invisible against the stars, so dark had become this darkest hour before the dawn. then to harley greenoak’s ears came a far-away sound, faint but unmistakable. it was the sound of voices, of native voices, singing. from far down on the plains beyond the river it came, and it was drawing nearer and nearer.
the watcher’s nerves thrilled to the sound. the voices were pitched low; purposely so he knew, none better. knew also that they proceeded from a moving mass of men. would the dawn never come?
it would, and it did. the world had grown perceptibly lighter. the loom of the hills was now distinct, but the depth of the plain was in darkness. still the moving sound drew nearer, and now in the tense stillness the listener could even distinguish the tenour of the words. it was a song of war.
none but a large and strongly armed band would have ventured thus to advertise its presence. the inference was clear. the body now marching from the gcaleka country was the expected incursion. if he had been in any doubt before, harley greenoak had now already decided to himself that his information was accurate.
the darkness faded still more, and now upon the fast lightening plain he was able to make out the moving mass. lighter still! hundreds of armed savages were advancing to the drift. he could make out detail, and took in the fact that many of them had guns, and now even that indescribable rattle of assegai hafts—curiously unlike any other sound—was borne upward to his ears. but the identity of any in the band he could not arrive at.
the war-song had ceased. they descended to the drift in silence, and without a moment’s hesitation waded into the swirling current, their weapons held high above their heads. this was breast deep, and as they gained the middle of the stream many linked hands in order to steady themselves against its strength. more than once a deep-toned, smothered laugh and a splash told that an odd warrior here and there had slipped and got a ducking. finally, the last had disappeared. he could not see them land, his own side of the river being shut from view by the tree-tops; but he knew exactly where they would land, and the line they would take for matanzima’s kraal. harley greenoak’s work here was done.
the next phase of it was that of warning. listening intently, he left his hiding-place. there was no sound of life along the river bank, the invading party had gone in an almost contrary direction. he struck into an old path, which followed the downward course of the river, and for some distance was able to travel with ease and rapidity. then this ceased, giving way to tumbled and broken rocks, every here and there heavily overgrown with trailers. above, on one side great rugged krantzes walled him in. not for many miles further down could he strike the open country again. greenoak had never been along this river bank before, but his experienced eyes took in the hang of it completely.
suddenly he stopped dead short, listening intently. in front—and not very far in front—the sound of deep-toned voices. in a moment he had slipped into a cleft between two rocks, and had drawn the trailers over him; and it seemed hardly a moment more when a number of fully armed kafirs appeared, moving leisurely along the way he had come, but taking the upward course of the bank. but for their utter unguardedness, they would have met him face to face. as it was, they passed so near as almost to brush the trailers which afforded him such precarious concealment. he held his very breath, so near were they.
they were talking at random, and a good deal all at once—and something was said about a roast, and how good it was, and the speakers passed on while others succeeded, talking about nothing in particular. but harley greenoak, through the interstices, recognised several of them, among others, mafutana and sikonile, whose son he had shot. then he knew that this hiding-place had received him not a moment too soon.
the last of the kafirs had gone by, but greenoak was in no hairy to move. when, finally, he decided that it was time to do so, the sun was already flaming up from beyond the kei hills, and the birds were breaking into song, twittering and calling from the cool shade of krantzes, or balancing on twig and spray, joyous, perky, in the glow of the new-born day.
suddenly he halted. no sight, no sound, had thus pulled him up, but—an odour. for there came to his nostrils a strong smell as of cooking, and it came from in front. he remembered how some of the kafirs had been talking about a “roast.” of course, he was coming to where they had spent the night, and had feasted—probably upon stolen stock. well, he would investigate. but—what if there should be others there?
cautiously he advanced, weapons ready, peering before him, listening, the strange odour stronger with every step, and he found himself hoping they might have left some of their repast, for he could do with a broil himself. and then—
not altogether unfamiliar with scenes of horrific ghastliness himself, at what he now saw, peering cautiously over a great rock, harley greenoak felt his blood run cold and his flesh creep.
beneath lay a hollow, overhung by the beetling cliff. the place was evidently the resort of a gang of cattle stealers, for the ground was thickly strewn with the skulls and bones of cattle and sheep, but, needless to say, the sight of these was not what had perturbed him.
in the centre of the place, slung to a thick, stout pole whose ends rested on two rocks, was a human figure—what was left of one, that is. it hung horizontally, bound to the pole by wrists and ankles, back downwards, forming a bow, and underneath were the still smouldering ashes of a large fire. the head hung down and the wretched creature was quite dead, but the middle of the body, upon which the fire had played, presented a sight that was indescribably horrible.
this, then, was the “roast” to which those human fiends had made allusion, decided greenoak; but why should the poor wretch have incurred such devilish vengeance, for the body was that of a native, not that of a white man? mastering his horror and disgust, greenoak stepped quickly forward to investigate—and then the mystery stood explained. in the agonised, drawn face of the dead man he recognised that of mantisa, the police detective.
like light the truth was borne in upon his brain. he pieced together everything. the presence of mafutana and sikonile with the party supplied the link. they had been lying in wait for himself, and in the darkness had pounced upon mantisa in mistake for himself, nor could it have been long after the former had gone on with the horse. yet why should they have brought the poor wretch here to put him to such a ghastly death? an assegai or two would have answered all purposes there on the spot. and then a conviction of the real truth came home to harley greenoak. they had tortured their prisoner to force him to reveal his own whereabouts, and mantisa had been unable or unwilling to do so. a great wave of pity and admiration swept through greenoak’s heart as he gazed upon the miserable mangled remains.
“poor, plucky devil!” he said to himself as he turned away, for the nature of the ground precluded any kind of attempt at burial. “poor, plucky, heroic devil! well, he’s gone aloft, that’s certain, if any one ever did get there, black or white.”
as he left the place of horror, he wondered what had become of his horse. had it been captured too? but as against this, he recalled the fact that it was not in the possession of the perpetrators of this atrocity what time they passed his hiding-place. well, he supposed he must give it up as lost, but coming at this juncture the loss was serious, for he had intended making a quick round in order to warn as many of the settlers as he could reach.
an hour of further travelling and the bush line would draw to an end in favour of more open country above. just before reaching this, however, a sound reached him. it was the quick whinny of a horse, the shaking of the saddle-flaps, then a neigh. of course, to one of greenoak’s rapid powers of deduction this meant a riderless horse. what if it was his—what if it had broken away, while the savages were occupied with their prisoner? a few more minutes and he came in sight of the animal, and—it was his.
but, holding the end of the bridle-rein, was a man, a native—a thick-set, ugly, scrabbly bearded savage, and armed. greenoak’s gun was up in a moment, covering the fellow.
but somehow or other, it did not seem to produce the effect he had expected. the ugly face split into a white stripe of grin, and a voice said in excellent english—
“not shoot, mr greenoak. i john voss.”
well might greenoak start. this, then, was the fellow who had been stealthily following him. the make-up was perfect. it happened that normally john voss was a singularly neat and smart-looking native, with an intelligent face and, for a native, a very respectable beard, of which he was not a little proud. the sacrifice of this latter alone, in order to transform himself into an evil-looking, squalid savage, argued a whole-hearted zeal deserving of recognition, and he had certainly succeeded, for himself, to a dangerous degree at that moment.
“well, john, you’ve had a narrow escape,” said greenoak. “but that i was afraid the horse would have schreked at the shot and cleared, you’d have been down with a bullet through you at this moment, i believe. now let’s hear all about it.”
the other told him—how he had followed mantisa, and witnessed his capture; how in the excitement of that event he had mingled with the kafirs in the darkness, and had ridden away upon the horse when their attention was more fully occupied, intending to wait for its owner at the point where he judged the latter would reappear. then greenoak told him of the crossing from gcalekaland, and the barbarous vengeance which had been taken upon poor mantisa. it happened that john voss had not been into the location at all, so had been powerless to warn either of the ambush laid, for the simple reason that he knew nothing of it.
and as they travelled, these two laid their plans as to how best warn the neighbourhood.
