Vunisa was a tall, powerful man, with rather a heavy and sullen face, but not without dignity even then. He had done nothing wrong, he protested; why, then, should the Government send the amapolise into his kraal and threaten to destroy it?
“The young white man who came here last night,” said Harley Greenoak. “Where is he?”
The chief turned to his followers. What was this about a young white man? Did anybody know? The while, Greenoak, who had dismounted, was watching him keenly. No. Nobody knew.
“Then Vunisa will be arrested,” he said.
The chief started, ever so slightly. An ominous hubbub arose among his followers, the bulk of whom dived quickly into the huts again. They had gone to arm.
In a moment they emerged, and the glint of assegai blades and the wave of hard sticks was everywhere, as the kraal became alive with swarming savages, the mutter of deep-toned voices eloquent with suppressed hate and menace. And they outnumbered the Police ten to one.
The latter had loaded with ball cartridge. Even then a sudden rush and the sheer weight of numbers was bound to overwhelm them, out in the open. But it was not made. The Kafirs seemed to hold that little armed force in wholesome respect. Still the merest accident might bring about a collision. The situation had become tense to dramatic point. What if Vunisa should persist in his disclaimer? There was a moment of dead, boding silence. Harley Greenoak broke it.
“Inspector, kindly send three of your men to search that hut,” pointing to one next to that whence Vunisa had emerged. “If the chief moves he will be shot,” he added, in the Xosa language.
Amid dead silence the three troopers entered. In a moment, from the interior of the hut, ejaculations were heard; then, through the low doorway there crawled forth a man—hatless, dirty with perspiration and smears of red-ochre; in short, with a generally dilapidated appearance. And then up stood Dick Selmes, rubbing his eyes.
“Hallo, Greenoak! Hallo, Inspector, how are you? I say, I’m jolly glad you’ve turned up. I’m more than a bit sick of spending the night tied up in an old Kafir blanket—faugh!—and not able to move finger or toe.”