“Halt!” rang out Hume’s voice.
“Verdomde,” came a startled reply, “what say you?”
“Drop that gun, drop it.” There was the dull sound of the gun falling. “Now, come on slowly.”
Horse and rider advanced into the open space, and Piet Coetzee sat in the saddle, casting uneasy glances about him.
“Dismount,” said Hume sternly.
Slowly the young giant swung himself to the ground, and stood sullenly regarding his enemies under his straight brows.
“Take the horse, Klaas, find the baas’s gun, and keep watch beyond the bush.”
The Kaffir obeyed with a grin.
“Now, Piet Coetzee,” said Hume, with a hard look in his keen blue eyes, and a tightening of his lips, “if you have anything to say why you should not be tied to the waggon-wheel and flogged, say it.”
Coetzee flushed to his eyes, then folded his arms. “I am not a black man, that you should speak of flogging.”