Presently the two natives stood silently regarding some object on the plain, and, attracted by their attention, Miss Anstrade asked what it was they saw.
“White men,” said Klaas.
“White men! Oh, then, we need not fly from our waggon, our home.”
Klaas shook his head.
“Bad men, they.”
“How can you tell, when they are so far that I cannot even see them?”
“They bad men,” said Klaas, shaking his head, with the Kaffir’s reluctance or incapacity to explain the reasons that led up to his firm opinion.
White men they certainly were, and presently they were met by a native. Were they friends or not? Anxiously they were watched as the men leisurely approached, and when they were close enough to be distinctly seen even by the untrained eyes of the Europeans, Miss Anstrade waved her handkerchief.
“Pass op,” shouted Klaas, “he will skit,” and at the cry four men sprang before Laura, while a tiny puff of smoke rolled up above the strangers, and a bullet whizzed unpleasantly near. That was the reply to the salute!
Hume, who had come out at the news of the strangers, flung up his rifle and fired, but the heavy Express carried wide at a long range.