Tales of South Africa

by H. A. Bryden

“I will not sign the paper to-day,” said the chief. “I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow.”

Puff-adder Brown’s face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.

But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn. Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition. During his five years’ career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader. Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe’s vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.

“Keep back! keep back!” cried Lane.

The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a wide circle, and the battle began.

Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather fancied himself in this affair of fists. He was big and bulky, and three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.

He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying, at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for his adversary. Time after time he planted his blows with those ominous dull thuds upon the trader’s fleshy face; now and again he drove into the big man’s ribs with strokes that made him wince again. In the second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder’s infuriated hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily visited; bumps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance; his wind was going.

“Now, old chap,” whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short pause for breath by the combatants, “you’ve done magnificently. You’ve got him on toast! Go in and win. It’s all up with the Puff-adder!”

There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed. In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent’s face and about his ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and hopelessly defeated.

Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of which they had never before seen. Their “ughs!” and ejaculations indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed rather pleased than otherwise. For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a fighting man himself—with his native weapons. Under Lane’s directions Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out of the place by next day. He told him that after the vile poisoning incident at the fountain—an attempt which might very well have murdered a whole expedition—any return to British Bechuanaland would result in his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart. During the night the discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels, a career is still open.