“Why?”
“Well, what possesses three fellows to go riding off into the veldt at night—eh? An’ then when the row ye had this morning comes to lake out, sure won’t they be puttin’ two and two together, anyway?”
“Nothing can be proved, and if it could, I don’t care. Who’s to prove that there was any exchange of shots, at all; and there’s no mistake about that pot-leg that rid the earth of the greatest blackguard it ever held being not a revolver ballet,” replied Claverton, in a hard, pitiless tone.
“There’s a good deal in that,” assented the other.
It was nearly midnight when they reached the camp, and the news spread like wildfire that Truscott had been shot by the Kafirs, the other two barely escaping; and before long some one appended the rider that Claverton was mortally wounded in trying to rescue him, which report reaching that worthy’s ears, he received it with a sardonic grin, and said nothing. And by a curious piece of luck, the row between the two had not got wind, the spectators of it, terrible gossips by nature, fearing consequences to themselves should it become known that they had stood calmly looking on while their officer got a thrashing, deemed it wise to hold their peace.
“Half an inch more, me boy, and ye’d likely as not have lost an arm,” said McShane, as he bound up a jagged and furrowed wound just below Claverton’s shoulder. “It’s nothing to spake of now, as long as ye keep quiet; but if ye don’t thur’ll be the divil to pay.”
The operation finished the patient turned in, and slept a heavy, dreamless sleep for thirteen hours.
In the morning a party was despatched to bring in Truscott’s body. It told its own tale; for in addition to being horribly cut about, after the time-honoured custom of the noble savage, the wound which had caused his death gaped wide and ghastly, bearing witness, as his late enemy had said, that it had been inflicted by no revolver bullet, even if the bit of pot-leg, which resembled the slug from an elephant gnu, had not been found. Everything belonging to the unfortunate man had been carried off—his horse, arms, and ammunition, even most of his clothing—indeed, when the expedition saw the spoors of the Kafirs all about the spot, the only wonder existing in their minds was that the other two had managed to escape. So far good; and it was not until long after that the faintest rumour of a duel having taken place began to leak out.
Meanwhile, we will return to another personage whom we have lost sight of for a space, our friend Sharkey, to wit, who, almost immediately upon Claverton’s return to camp, had been reported missing, the general impression being that he had deserted, and, as men could not be spared just then, no search was made for him. But for once that interesting individual had been maligned. It happened that morning that the attention of a patrol returning to camp was attracted by the sight of a cloud of aasvogels hovering above the bush. More of the great carrion birds rose, flapping their huge white pinions and soaring leisurely away, and then the reason of the gathering was made plain. There, in the long grass, half devoured by these hideous scavengers, lay the remains of the missing man, Vargas Smith, alias Sharkey, soi-disant Cuban gentleman, late corporal in Truscott’s Levy. Though the body was horribly torn, yet it was evident that the man had met his death from a couple of assegai wounds, one of which must have pierced his heart.
And this is how it came about. When Xuvani, having safely conducted his charge within the lines of the latter’s own people—a service which the people aforesaid repaid by opening fire upon both of them, as we have seen—he disappeared; that is to say, he dodged down behind the bushes, and half running, half crawling, rapidly made good his retreat. And he would have made it good, but for the fact that one man had caught sight of his manoeuvres and was determined he should not. This was our friend Sharkey, who was on the extreme outskirts of the column, and who, anxious to have the fun all to himself, started off at a run to take up a position in a certain narrow place through which he judged—and judged rightly—that the Kafir would be almost certain to pass; when he could shoot him at his leisure.