Tales of South Africa Part 10

Puff-adder Brown, it may be remarked, was a notorious border character, who, as trader, cattle-stealer, horse-lifter, freebooter, and general ruffian, was well-known. In the Bechuana troubles some years before the man had served as volunteer alternately on either side, sometimes throwing in his lot with the Dutch, at others siding with the natives.

In either case, cattle and land plunder had been his prime object. In the quieter times following the British occupation he seldom showed much in Vryburg or Mafeking, judging rightly that his presence was objectionable to most decent men. The man was strong and unscrupulous, a bully, and violent where he dared; and his nickname, "Puff-adder," had been bestowed upon him from a curious swelling of the neck observable in him in moments of anger.

In half an hour more the last good-byes were said, the farewell stirrup-cups partaken of; the horses were at the door. The three adventurers rode forth into the broad moonlight, and were soon at the outspan, where their wagon stood ready. A little later the oxen were in their yokes, and the trek began.

For the next month the expedition moved steadily north-west into the Kalahari, trekking with infinite toil from one scant pit of water to another. During the first week, small temporary pans of water left by the rains had saved a good deal of hardship; but after that time it was only with the greatest difficulty that a sufficient supply for the oxen and horses could be hit upon in each three or four days of travel. The country, too, was not an easy one. Sometimes they laboured amid heavy calcareous sand, through thick forests of mopani, where the axe had to be constantly at work to make a pa.s.sage. At others th.o.r.n.y bush obstinately barred the way. Anon they moved across great dazzling plains of long gra.s.s, now turning once more to a blinding yellow beneath the too ardent sun. The pleasant groves of dark-green giraffe-acacia, masking a reddish, sandy soil, offered welcome relief now and again; but even here a road had sometimes to be cut, and the toil was long and exhausting.

One evening, just at sundown, at the end of a month, the wagon reached the remains of a shallow pool of rain-water, much fouled by game, and rapidly vanishing by evaporation. The oxen had trekked almost incessantly for two days and nights, and were gaunt and wild with thirst. The noisome mixture of mud and water stank abominably, but the two barrels were empty, and had to be recruited against the journey ahead of them. These filled, the oxen and horses were allowed to drink moderately, leaving a bare supply for the morning before they should move forward again.

Hume Wheler and Joe Granton had come in with the wagon. Lane had ridden forward forty-eight hours since with a Bushman picked up at the last water, with the object of finding a desert fountain far distant in the wilderness, where the next supply of water was to be obtained. Upon the strength of this fountain hinged the safety of the expedition in the last trek of nearly a week--waterless except for this supply--before Tapinyani's kraal should be reached.

After a poor supper of tough, tinned "bully beef"--they had had no time to shoot game--and a mere sip at the poisonous and well-nigh undrinkable coffee, brewed from the foul water of the pool, Hume Wheler lay by the fire smoking in moody contemplation. The day had been desperately hot, and the work very hard, and even now, as night with her train of stars stepped forth upon the heaven, the air was close and still. Joe Granton had climbed up to the wagon for more tobacco. His cheerful nature was little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance pa.s.sed through his brain, and in a mellow voice he sang:--

"How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well."

As the notes died slowly away upon the still air, Wheler looked up from the fire, and said in a sharp voice, "What in G.o.d's name, Joe, possesses you to sing about moss-grown wells and cool English water, and that sort of thing? It's bad enough to be enduring the tortures of the d.a.m.ned in this cursed desert, with a thirst on one big enough to drain Windermere, without being reminded of such things. Don't, old man; don't!"

"All right, old chap," cheerily answered Granton. "I'll drop the 'Moss-covered Bucket' and its unpleasant suggestions. I'll get out my banjo and come down." Extricating the banjo, he descended, and sat at his friend's side. They sat smoking by the firelight, exchanging but few words, while Joe tw.a.n.ged softly at his strings.

In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other fire, where the native servants sat.

"I tink, Sieur," he said, "that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear something just now."

Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane's whistle was heard, and, directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly foundered horse into the strong firelight.

After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some water. "He's about cooked, poor beast," he said. "I don't think he'd have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?"

They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.

"That's pretty bad," he remarked; "but it might be worse. I'll have another. I've touched no drink for eighteen hours, and it was blazing hot to-day. I've got bad news, boys, and I'm afraid we're in a tight place."

"Why, what devil's hole are we in now?" queried Wheler. "I thought we were about through the last of our troubles."

"I'm afraid not, Hume," replied Lane. "That infernal scoundrel Puff-adder Brown has been ahead of us. Somehow I half suspected some game of the kind. I got it all from a Bakalahari near the water in front. Brown, it seems, with his light wagon, trekked across from Kanya by way of Lubli Pits, and has just pipped us. To make matters secure, he has poisoned the water-pit I've just come from with euphorbia branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak. We were just going to drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here--a decent Masarwa he is, too--stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker's curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one. However, we'll be even with him yet. He's not far in front, and we may spoil his little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship."

By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled.

Nearly six days of absolutely waterless travel, if the wagons could by any possibility be dragged, lay between the trekkers and Tapinyani's kraal. No oxen could pull the wagon waterless over such a journey. It was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning, to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani's. Without the enc.u.mbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be accomplished in two days, or rather less. Watered, rested, and refreshed at Tapinyani's kraal, the oxen could then be driven back to fetch in the wagon. This part of the undertaking was to be entrusted to Stephan, the Hottentot driver. Stephan had been picked for the expedition as a thoroughly reliable native, and having traversed the Kalahari before, he would be equal to the emergency. Meanwhile, the three white men, riding their freshest horses, and leading their spare ones, were to push forward, after watering the nags at earliest dawn, in the confident hope of reaching Tapinyani's kraal in a forced march of thirty-six hours.

At four o'clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani's kraal, that singular native village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew the place, and they pa.s.sed straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular, gra.s.s-thatched huts, until they reached the large _kotla_, or enclosure, in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani's own residence stood.

Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they pa.s.sed by an open entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met their gaze.

Just in front of the chief's hut was gathered a collection of natives, some nearly naked--save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari folk--others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin-- pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals. In the centre of his headmen and councillors--for such they were--seated on a low wagon-chair of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself, a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the tall white man standing at his side. This white man, a huge, broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure, notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than Puff-adder Brown himself. Bulking in size and stature far above the slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple a.s.semblage of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.

"By George! we're just in time," said Lane, as he dismounted with alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head.

"Come on, you fellows!"

His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second or two they were marching side by side with Lane across the _kotla_ to Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust. They were quickly across the forty paces of red sand, and now stood before the astonished group.

"Greeting! Tapinyani," said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as he moved up near to him. "I hope all is well with you and your people.

What do you do here with this man," indicating Brown, "and what is the paper you have in your hands?"

The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.

"How much land?" asked Lane.

"Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats," replied the chief.

"And how much are you to receive for this?"

"Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy," was the answer. "I am glad you have come," pursued Tapinyani; "I know you well, and you can advise me in this matter."

He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest on Puff-adder Brown's part, ran his eye rapidly over the doc.u.ment.

"Just as I thought," remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani. "By this paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man.

The thing's an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do with it." He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.

Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute.

He had not expected this sudden appearance after the precautions he had taken, especially at the poisoned pool. But while Lane and the chief had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened Puff-adder Brown.

"Wait a bit, chief," he blurted out in the native tongue. "These men are liars, every one of them. Don't believe them, the swines! There is nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a concession of land themselves."

"Tapinyani," rejoined Lane, "let me tell you something more about this man. He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with that paper."

Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his hand.

"I will not sign the paper to-day," said the chief. "I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow."

Puff-adder Brown's face was ablaze with pa.s.sion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the a.s.sembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.

But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn.

c.o.c.kney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition. During his five years' career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader.

Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe's vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.

"Keep back! keep back!" cried Lane.

The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a wide circle, and the battle began.

Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather fancied himself in this affair of fists. He was big and bulky, and three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.

He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying, at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for his adversary. Time after time he planted his blows with those ominous dull thuds upon the trader's fleshy face; now and again he drove into the big man's ribs with strokes that made him wince again. In the second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder's infuriated hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily visited; b.u.mps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance; his wind was going.

"Now, old chap," whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short pause for breath by the combatants, "you've done magnificently. You've got him on toast! Go in and win. It's all up with the Puff-adder!"

There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed.

In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent's face and about his ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and hopelessly defeated.

Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of which they had never before seen. Their "ughs!" and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed rather pleased than otherwise. For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a fighting man himself--with his native weapons. Under Lane's directions Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out of the place by next day. He told him that after the vile poisoning incident at the fountain--an attempt which might very well have murdered a whole expedition--any return to British Bechua.n.a.land would result in his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart. During the night the discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels, a career is still open.