“Whouw!” exclaimed the old man, turning half aside to conceal an embarrassed smile. “They are my brothers, ’Nkos. They just came to visit me.”
“Of course they are. If the half of Kafirland were to turn up here they would all be your brothers, just come to visit you. It won’t do. So turn them out, you old shuffler, and let’s have a look at them.”
Then the intruders, to the number of three, who had been attentive listeners to the above confabulation, turned out and saluted Claverton. All three were finely-made fellows, but the elder was a man of almost herculean build. His powerful frame, which was scantily clad, was smeared from head to foot with red ochre; above his left elbow he wore an armlet of solid ivory, and from his appearance he was evidently a man of rank. In his hand he held a couple of kerries made of heavy iron-wood; one of his companions was similarly armed, while the third carried a bundle of assegais.
Claverton looked them up and down, noting every detail in their persons and weapons. “Loafers all three, and up to no good,” was his mental estimation of them, “but devilish awkward customers to tackle. Never mind. Off they must go—quietly or the reverse—but go they must.” Then he asked them the usual questions—where they came from, where they were going, and so on—they being ready with an answer of which he knew exactly how much to believe.
“Came only last night, did you? That is strange, because the evening before and all day yesterday there were three Kafirs here, and one of them was a tall man with an armlet on, and they had a couple of yellow dogs with them. How queer that exactly the same thing, should happen two days in succession!” he said in a quiet, bantering tone. In point of fact he was drawing a bow at a venture, but could see by the shifty eyes of the man to whom he was speaking that the shaft had gone home.
This fellow grinned and shook his head with an exclamation of intense amusement.
“Inkos must be Umtagati,” (one who has dealings with magic or witchcraft) he said, “to see all that went on when he was not here.”
“Umtagati? Well, perhaps,” was the easy reply. Then, fixing his eyes on those of the tall chief, who had been regarding him with a haughty and indifferent stare, Claverton went on in the same easy tone. “What do you think, Nxabahlana?” He addressed, started perceptibly. How did the white man know his name? “What do you think of Umtagati? But listen. No one has any right loafing here without permission from the Baas up yonder. So now, off you go, all three—now and at once, or you’ll assuredly come to grief. And, be careful, for remember: The black goat dies and the white goat lives.”
“Whouw!” cried all four, unable to conceal their amazement. Then, without another word, one of the fellows diving into the hut, returned with the light impedimenta belonging to the three, and with their curs at their heels, the Kafirs strode off. Just before they entered the bush the chief turned and gazed fixedly at Claverton for a minute. Then they disappeared.
“All right, my friend. I shall know you again when next we meet.” Then to the old herd, who stood holding his stirrup: “Those men must not come back, Umgiswe. And I tell you what, if you go harbouring any more conspiring loafers you’ll get into trouble.” And he rode away.