sunrise. a long green valley bounded by pleasant, round-topped, bush-clad hills. the slopes are dotted with kraals, the blue wood-smoke curling aloft from the yellow thatch of many a beehive-shaped hut, the red-ochred forms of the inhabitants moving about—early as it is—making a not unpleasing contrast to the eye against the bright green of the pastures, though by no means pleasing to another sense, at far closer quarters. but the thorn enclosures contain no cattle, although it is milking-time, nor do any stand around outside, only a few sheep and goats. this is strange.
harley greenoak, pacing his horse up the valley, noted the fact, and—read it at its real meaning. and its real meaning did not augur well either for the situation or for his self-imposed mission by which he had hoped to improve the latter. but little time was to be his for tranquil reflection, for there was a savage rush of dogs from two of the clusters of huts he was passing at a hundred yards or so, and a tumultuous snapping and snarling round his horse’s heels. it was followed immediately by a scarcely less tumultuous irruption of the inhabitants. these poured forward, vociferating volubly. all had sticks, and a goodly proportion carried assegais. their demeanour was not friendly.
but the foremost pulled up short, then the rest. the rush subsided into a walk.
“whau! it is kulondeka!”
no weapon had been presented, or even significantly handled. no change had come over the imperturbability of the horseman. it was only the name, the mesmerism, so to say, of the personality. that was all.
“i see you,” was the answer. “but i did not come to see you.” and the speaker rode unconcernedly on.
the crowd, who had now stoned and beaten off the dogs, fell in behind, talking in an undertone among itself. from every additional kraal passed, others came forth to swell it, at first aggressively hostile in attitude, then more subdued, but always sullen. in fact, greenoak remarked that the prevailing attitude was that of sullenness.
“the grass is green and abundant. there should be good pasture for the cattle here now,” he remarked over his shoulder to the foremost. “there will be plenty of fatness and milk this season.”
a deep-toned murmur, in which he was quick to detect a covert sneer, greeted his words.
“ewa—ewa! plenty of fatness this season, kulondeka,” answered several voices. and the same unmistakable sneer underlay the words.
“turn back, kulondeka,” now said one, a man who seemed to be in some authority, as he came up along side of the horseman. “we do not want any white people about here now. the chief is tired of them.”
“the chief! but it is not the chief i am going to see, mafutana. it is his son.”
“but what if he is not here?” said the kafir, sullenly.
“but what if he is?” returned greenoak, composedly. “i know my way. i have no need of these here”—with a wave of the hand towards those who were following. “they can go home.”
a hoarse jeer among the crowd greeted the words, but the said crowd showed not the slightest sign of complying with the speaker’s wish. more than one, gripping the long, tapering assegai, was thinking what a tempting target was offered by the back of this unmoved white man, riding there before them as though his life hung upon something stronger than a not very secure rope. so the strange procession passed on.
the newly risen sun was flaming above the kei hills. the blue sky was without a cloud. the morning air, not yet unpleasantly warm, was clear and invigorating. the fair, rolling pastures were green and promising, and altogether the whole scene should have been one of pastoral peace. but it was the peace of the slumbering volcano, to-day stillness, to-morrow red ruin, and none knew this better than harley greenoak. he knew why there was no cattle anywhere in sight.
now he had reached a kraal at the head of the valley, one in no wise differing in appearance from any of the others he had passed. here he dismounted, but before he could make an inquiry of the inhabitants—the crowd following him, by the way, having now halted at a respectful distance—an interruption occurred—startling, unexpected.
a large body of kafirs came pouring over the ridge. they were in full war-array—cow-tail tufts, flapping monkey-skins, long crane feathers flowing back from the head, jackals’ teeth necklaces—in short, every conceivable variety of wild and fantastic adornment which could lend to the sinuous clay-smeared forms a wholly terrific appearance. and indeed such was the effect, as with a roar like that of a beast they rushed down upon harley greenoak.
he, for his part, stood unmoved; though even to one of his iron resolution the array of excited faces and gleaming eyeballs, and threatening assegais, as the savages crowded up to him, might well have proved momentarily unnerving. was this the projected gcaleka raid, he wondered, and in a flash he decided that it was not. it was a body of young men who had spent the night war-dancing, with its concomitant of beef and beer feasting, hard by; and, now excited by such stimulant, mental and physical, was prepared for anything.
they made mock thrusts at him with their assegais—not too near, however. others were leaping into the air, singing, or reciting all the deeds they were about to do.
“the time of the abelungu has come!” cried one, if possible more truculent and demoniacal-looking than his fellows. “whau! but we will drive them all into the sea, and take their wives for our wives. have you a wife, kulondeka? but no. she would be too old. she, and others like her, would do to hoe our corn lands. or—”
and the speaker made a quick, downward slash with his assegai that left room for no explanation in mere words.
greenoak listened to all this—and more—in silent contempt. he was getting rather tired of it, and expected that they would be getting the same directly, and would go. but the most truculent of them, a huge, red-smeared brute of well-nigh gigantic proportions, lunged forward and snatched hold of the double gun which he held in his left hand, attempting with a quick powerful jerk to wrest it away.
he did not succeed. in a twinkling the muzzle of whites. greenoak’s heavy revolver caught him fair and square between the eyes, with such force that the impact alone was almost enough to brain him, apart from the roar of the detonation which immediately followed. the huge barbarian, his head blown to atoms, crashed to the ground like a felled tree.
for a moment there was a tense and deathly silence. greenoak, still holding the pistol pointed, had taken a couple of paces backward. his grey eyes were gleaming like steel, and his whole aspect was cool and dangerous. the time for indifference was past, he had decided; that for action had come; and the man who had ventured to lay a hand on him had paid for his daring with his life. at that moment he himself hardly expected to escape with his, but it would go terribly hard with several, before, in their weight of numbers, they should succeed in taking it. now, he wasted no word. his silence, the lightning-like promptitude with which he had acted, and with which he would be ready to act again, as they well knew, were more awe-inspiring than mere verbal warning. and then there was the prestige of his personality.
upon the silence broke forth a deep-toned, vengeful growl that was ominous. then it suddenly died down. a voice behind him spoke.
“it is kulondeka i see.”
“it is,” answered greenoak, not turning his head. “and i think, son of the great chief, that these had better go home. it is not a healthy amusement for any man to try and snatch my gun out of my hand.”
at these words, cool and contemptuous, a new outburst of wrath went up, and the excited savages began to crowd up nearer, clamouring that kulondeka should be given up to their vengeance. some in the background raised the war-cry. it was taken up, and, gathering volume, sounded back from the hills, whence now other bands were hurrying to the scene. the chief’s son stepped to the side of harley greenoak and threw an arm around his shoulders.
“see. we are brothers,” he said. “the great chief is the father of both.”
again there was a silence, broken immediately by a voice.
“au! the son of the great chief is bewitched. this kulondeka is the eyes and ears of the whites—here, everywhere. how then can he, too, be the son of the great chief?” and a fresh outburst greeted the words.
greenoak noticed that this was the man who had tried to turn him back. he had thrust himself forward, and being a headman of some standing, and elderly, he might prove dangerous in the scale. and his leanings were hostile.
matanzima drew himself up. it was time to assert his dignity, and he had plenty of it. seen outwardly now, he was a lithe, straight, well-set-up savage, with clear eyes and a decidedly pleasing face. he wore an ample kaross of leopard skin, flung loosely around him, and but for this, and a massive ivory armlet, displayed no adornment whatever. now he turned his eyes sternly upon the assembled rout, sweeping it steadily from end to end with his glance.
“have i no men?” he said, in slow, incisive tones. “have i no men? then who are these? are they mafutana’s dogs, or are they mine? hau! there are dogs who bark too loud, but when it comes to biting slink away with their tails down. how is it with these? i lead not such dogs to war.”
the clamourers paused, shamefaced. matanzima was immensely popular with the younger men; in fact, was regarded as the leader and hope of the war-party. they dared not actively oppose him. they knew, too, that but for this white man, for whose blood they were thirsting, he would never have been here to lead them. the clamour seemed to be dying out.
“what of nzinto yonder, son of the great chief?” cried a voice. “he is the son of my father, and lo!—he lies dead.”
“m-m!” the deep-chested murmur from the crowd backed the words. all eyes were bent eagerly upon matanzima.
“why, as to that,” said the latter, “you have heard kulondeka say that it is not healthy to try and snatch a gun from his hand. nzinto tried to, and—”
“yet it shall be blood for blood, son of sandili,” was the answer, “for he was my brother.”
“kulondeka is my brother,” returned matanzima. “or, i should say, my father, for what am i but a boy beside him? yet no blood for blood shall it be here. if you meet in battle—well and good, the best warrior is he who wins. now we have talked long enough. i think—too long.”
and linking his arm within that of greenoak, he drew him towards the hut from which he himself had just emerged, at the same time making a sign to one of his own immediate attendants to take charge of the horse, which, its first uneasiness over, was placidly cropping the grass, its bridle trailing on the ground.
