On the opposite bank of the water-course were four wagons, and a drove of strange oxen were just coming down to the fountain to drink.
"Visitors!" cried Oscar, shaking his bridle-rein and putting his horse into a gallop. "I hope they are English or Scotch; but even if they are Dutchmen, and can't understand a word I say, I shall give them a hearty welcome. I didn't know before that I was so lonely."
In a few moments Oscar met his oxen, which had been turned about with their heads toward the plain, and also his driver, who hurried up to him with a face full of news.
"Hi, baas!" he exclaimed. "Boer man shoot ox."
"What?" shouted Oscar.
"Yaas; shoot dead," replied the Hottentot, who was all excitement. "Shoot all dead. No let drink water."
Greatly bewildered, Oscar looked around for McCann, and seeing him following after the herd, galloped around to meet him.
"What's the trouble here?" he asked. "To whom do those wagons belong?"
"The owners are Dutch transport-riders, who are on their way to the Kalahari Desert—Sechelle's country, you know—to trade for feathers and ivory," answered McCann. "They arrived here about half an hour ago."
"What does Ferguson mean by saying that they will not let my oxen drink?" continued Oscar.