Tales from the Veld Part 31

It was only a brief rest; but the Zunguin warriors profited by it, and their fleetest men were already rounding the cattle to turn them up the hill. There rang out the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the black warriors pitched forward on his face.

"Keep your fire," said the Commandant, sternly, as he looked round at his son. "Was that you, Piet? It was a good shot, my little one."

Piet hung his head, and looked askance to see whether any of the men were laughing at him, but they were never so far from laughter as then.

Several were hedging away to the left, looking at the Commandant out of the tail of their small eyes, ready for the bolt across the rolling plain to the Blood River.

"We must turn the cattle," said the leader. "Come, all together," and he moved on up the hill. But no one followed.

"If we are killed," said Oom Jan, slowly, "our wives and children will suffer more than if we return not with the cattle."

"Ja, ja! that is altogether true," said the others, eagerly.

The Commandant glanced back and saw that he was alone.

"Keep the Kaffirs back," he said, without any anger, "and I will myself turn them."

So he urged on his great horse up the hill, while the others faced about and fired, not recklessly, but only when they were sure.

Young Piet looked after his father and feared, and urged his horse forward, and drew back as he saw dark figures crouching low along the hillside, and flitting swiftly from rock to rock. Up the hill his father went, menacing now one warrior, now another, with his rifle, getting at last above the cattle, then with a roar he turned and swept the herd before him down on to the rolling gra.s.s veld again.

All would have been well if the burghers had stood fast a moment longer, but seeing the cattle safe they galloped after, and the Zulus, fearing to be baulked of their prey, made their last effort.

"My Gott!" cried the Commandant, "why do you run? Hold them back!" But the men had got the madness of flight in their blood now, and nothing would hold them, though the Zulus were now out on the plain and without shelter. So once again he stood alone, checking the rush of the foe with his menacing rifle before he galloped on. a.s.segais whizzed by his head; then his horse reared with a shrill scream of pain, and he was hurled headlong.

When he presently sat up with a ringing in his head, he saw the Zulus standing away off with the a.s.segais poised, and he attempted to rise.

"My leg is broken," he muttered.

"Lay still, my father. Oom Jan will come for you."

The big man looked round and saw his son standing behind, with his rifle ready, facing the warriors, alone. "Oh, Heer! Oh, Heer!" he groaned.

"My son, why are you here?"

"Oom Jan will come," muttered the boy, huskily.

"Anything but this," cried the big man. Then he said sternly, "Give me your rifle, Piet, and run--run for your mother's sake. Run, you are untired and the Kaffirs have come miles. Your rifle--quick!"

Young Piet shook his head. "Oom Jan will come," he whispered.

The Zulus, silent with quivering nostrils and gleaming eyes, drew in closer.

The veld echoed the sound of rapid hoof-beats.

Old Piet Uys raised himself on his arm and looked over the veld. He saw his burghers coming; but they were far, and he faintly heard Oom Jim's voice ring out in encouragement.

"Run, my little one," he repeated; "run, I order you! Your father tells you," and the man looked sternly at his son.

The boy shook his head, his lips parted, but the words never came. The next instant his rifle spoke its last message, and the Zulus rushed in.

They found them both; the boy lying across his father's broad breast.

And the little mother sat tearless through the night crying that "The Groot Heer was good, but he had taken all--all," while Oom Jan wept like a child.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

UNCLE ABE AND THE SNAKE.

The day was wet, the ploughing was over, and as we had an idle spell, what more natural than that most of us should find business at the store? where we sat on bags and boxes, and smoked and talked, or sometimes sang beautifully to the wailing tunes from Long Jim's concertina. This day old Abe Pike, humped up on the counter, with his heels drumming against the side of it, was holding forth on the iniquity of Parliament, when a stranger entered, wringing wet, and Abe stopped to investigate his appearance.

"Don't let me interrupt you," said the stranger--a townsman evidently, from his dress and a.s.surance.

"Take a seat," said Abe, pointing with his boot at a box of soap. "Not walking, are yer?" with a curious glance at the stranger's knickerbockers. "Going far? Stopping here long? Stranger, aren't you?"

"Well, yes," said the newcomer with a laugh. "I've come thirty miles since breakfast."

"Grub early?"

"I beg your pardon? Oh, no; had breakfast at eight, left at nine."

"Phew!" said Abe, "thirty miles in four hours. Must be a good horse you've got."

"It is rather," said the stranger, with a curious smile.

"Hoss knocked up, I s'pose. Been riding too hard?"

"No, not at all. He's good for another thirty miles before sunset," and he gave us a wink.

Abe looked gravely at the stranger for some seconds, while one by one, on some excuse or other, we went outside to look at the stranger's horse. We found a new pattern bicycle in the shed--new to us--and we returned to the room looking as much unconcerned as we could, but eager to get a rise out of Abe.

"That's a fine animal," said Long Jim; "clean in the limbs, with plenty of grit, and full of fire. Never turned a hair, too, what's more!"

Abe looked at Long Jim, who was trying to suppress a smile; then he relit the pipe he had suffered to go out.

"Reminds me," he said, "of that there hoss Topgallant, which carried me one hundred miles twixt sun-up and sun-down." Fixing his eyes on--the stranger, he launched into a long yarn about some impossible incident.

He was not, however, up to his usual form, being suspicious of our nods and winks, and the stranger was not astonished.

"It's a curious thing," he said, "that people are slow to believe in things which have not come under their own observation unless they read of them in print. Now this very morning I met with an experience which may seem to you incredible."

"Go ahead," said Long Jim. "If you've got a story, tell it, and we'd be thankful to you, after the stuff we've been obliged to swallow from Mr Pike there."

"If I may say so," said the stranger, "his story was fair, but it lacked circ.u.mstance. There is an art in building up a story which perhaps my friend on the counter has missed."

"Fire away," said Abe, grimly. "I'm not too old to larn."

"Thank you. Of course, you all know the long descent into Blaauw Krantz, and the sharp elbow bend in the wood near the bottom before the steep fall into the river. Of course. Well, I have been in the habit of riding out on Sat.u.r.day evenings to visit a farmhouse on this side, and, as a precautionary measure, I ring the bell continuously while riding down the slope."

Abe arrested the narrative by a gesture--"Whatjer carry a bell for?" he asked, suspiciously.