“That for the first lie,” said Mtezani, emphasising the remark with another dig, which made the prostrate one squirm and moan. “Answer, or I cut thee to pieces, strip by strip. Now—why was it?”
“He said I must.”
“Ha! Inxele?”
“Eh-hé, Inxele. He promised to shoot me if I failed, and now he will.”
“He will not. Go on,” said Wyvern. “Why were you to shoot me?”
“I cannot tell, Nkose. Except—yes, I heard him say, when he had taken too much tywala, that you must go—that you must be taken care of—yes that was how he put it, but I knew what he meant. He gave me this gun—I often go out and shoot game for him, Nkose—and told me to go and watch for you. If I did not take care of you, and that soon, he would come after me, and shoot me, wherever I might be. And he would have done it. I know Inxele, Nkose, if you do not.”
“And the other Inkosi, U’ Joe—were you to have ‘taken care’ of him too?” said Wyvern.
“Nothing did he say about that, Nkose,” was the answer. “It was you—only you.”
Wyvern pondered. What sort of vindictive fiend could this be, he thought, who could deliberately and in cold blood order his assassination merely because he had disapproved of his brutal and barbarous ways? Then the incidents of the falling tree and the spring-gun recurred to him. That these were no accidents he had long since determined, and now here was a fresh attempt; but that Rawson had some powerful motive for removing him out of existence over and above that of sheer vindictiveness, of course never came into his mind.
“How long have you been watching for an opportunity to ‘take care of me’?” he asked, but his Zulu was defective, and it was not at once that he could compass the answer.