Chapter Twelve.
A Formidable Obstruction.
Explanations having been hastily exchanged, the trio of young Boers turned face toward the camp. Burning to make known the joyful news, Rynwald and Piet’s brother would have gone back at a gallop, and so Piet himself. But there was something to delay them: this the horse late chased by wilde-honden. The rain, at first refreshing the animal, had afterwards produced an opposite effect, and the result of the sudden change from heat to chill was a founder, the creature being now barely able to keep on its legs. As it could not carry him further without cruelty, its merciful master, dismounting, led it along.
This entailed slow progress, and thinking of those in the camp, with anxieties to be relieved, young Rynwald proposed galloping on ahead. To this neither of the others objected, and he was about spurring away from them, when there arose another obstruction, of a still more formidable kind. An animal it was, seen standing right on the track he would have to take—one that could not be passed with impunity. Many animals were there, for it was where several other buffaloes had been shot down, whose carcases, now mangled, were surrounded by jackals, hyaenas, and vultures. But it was not any of these that stood in Hendrik Rynwald’s way, in an attitude of angry menace. Instead, the king and master of them all—a lion; one of the largest and fiercest-looking any of the young hunters had ever seen, much less encountered. The tawny brute appeared as though he had but late arrived on the ground, coming in at the end of the feast to find only bare bones; and, being hungry, the disappointment had roused his rage to the highest pitch of fury. Having caught sight of the oncoming horsemen, he evidently intended venting his spleen, as well as appeasing his hunger, on one or other of them. He stood crouched and roaring, with mane erect and tail oscillating to and fro; both the attitude and action well-known to lion-hunters as indicative of greatest danger.
The two bestriding fresh horses need not have much feared the black-maned brute, and for that matter could have avoided an encounter with it by riding wide away and around. For to a man well mounted the lion is only dangerous in thicket, or jungle, hindering free action to the horse. But circumstanced as they were, the young Boers saw that only two of their horses had a fair chance of escaping thus, and perhaps but two of themselves. The third must surely come to grief in any attempt at shunning the lion, and to face it boldly could not well have worse result; so facing it was instantly determined on. Indeed, the resolve could not have been delayed; as at this place the veldt was overgrown with tall grass, and they were close to the danger before sighting it—so close, that in a dozen of his cat-like leaps the lion might at any moment launch himself in their midst.
Less from any hope of his now staggering steed helping him to escape, than the impulse of instinct—or rather habit—Piet Van Dorn sprang back into the saddle; and the three, drawing their horses’ heads together, remained at halt with their eyes fixed on the leeuw. The brute was within range of their roers, and the question was whether all three should fire together, or in succession.
Not much time was allowed them for determination, in fact, not any. Scarce had they their guns in readiness when, with a roar loud as last night’s thunder, the lion came vaulting towards them.
The three pulled trigger almost simultaneously; two of them, Hendrik Rynwald and the younger Van Dorn, to miss, their frightened horses as they danced about spoiling their aim. Different was it with that ridden by Piet, whose forlorn condition was, possibly, as unexpectedly the saving of his own and master’s life. Too far gone even for affright, he stood stock still; nor budged an inch, till the roer, with muzzle projected beyond his ears, belched forth flame and smoke; a bullet at the same time, which striking the leeuw fair on the frontlet, went crashing through its skull. As a result the creature, so dreaded, tumbled instantly over like a shot rabbit, and lay in the long grass equally harmless.
With all South Africans, be they natives, colonists, Vee-Boers, or other, the killing of a lion is an event to be chronicled, and he who kills one is deemed to have performed a feat worthy of great praise; of course all the greater when one of such size as that which had fallen to Piet Van Dorn’s bullet. Its skin would be a spoil indeed, and he determined taking it with him. There was no longer such need for haste on his part, as Hendrik Rynwald could now carry out his original intention of preceding to camp—which he did.
Dismounting again, the brothers set about stripping the leeuw of its pelt; an operation which cost them but a few minutes’ time, both being used to such work. Then with the skin thrown over the saddle, they continued on toward the timber, Piet leading his horse as before.
In another half-hour, or so, they were near enough the camp-ground to make out the figures of the men and animals that occupied it; to see something, moreover, which filled them with surprise, even amazement. There was commotion in the laager and around it, people rushing excitedly hither and thither; horses and oxen being caught up and led hurriedly from point to point. Borne on the still air also they could hear voices, shouts, uttered in alarm as the tone testified.
In wonder at what it all meant, the brothers pushed faster forward. Piet, no longer so tender with his halting steed, forced the animal into a trot, himself running alongside. And when within nearer view their wonder was no less, instead greater, and now with fear added. For they saw the waggons drawn out upon the open veldt, with the oxen in long line attached to the trek-touws, while the horses were all under saddle and bridled. Clearly the camp was being broken up, and about to be abandoned. But for what reason? Had the Matabele turned hostile, and was a party of them threatening attack? But no, it could not be that. If attacked, the laager would be the best place for resistance; far safer than with the waggons on trek. What then could be causing a movement so unexpected—so inexplicable? The two youths were in a very maze of mystification. But not much longer were they left in it. When within half a mile of the camp, a horseman came riding in all haste towards them—Hendrik Rynwald.
“What is it?” hailed they, soon as he was within hearing.
To receive for answer, “The tsetse! The tsetse!”