The boys had read enough to know that a “span” of oxen was six yoke, and that a “salted” horse was an animal which had had the distemper and been cured of it. Such horses were hard to find, and it sometimes required considerable urging, and the display of a good deal of money, to induce their owners to part with them after they were found, for they were considered to be proof against the diseases which were so prevalent in the interior. Many a sportsman had the boys read of, who, when a thousand miles from the coast and in the midst of a fine hunting country, had suddenly found himself without a nag to ride, all his animals having been carried off by the distemper. Had he taken the precaution to purchase “salted” horses, he would not have been in so much danger of being placed in this disagreeable situation. True, the lions might kill his stock, or it might die for want of water; but these were perils that could oftentimes be averted by a little extra care and forethought.
“This outfit is at Grahamstown,” continued Uncle Dick, “and we are going down to take a look at it. This man I brought off with me is a Scotchman, named McGregor. He used to be a transport-rider.”
“What is a transport-rider, and where is Grahamstown?” asked Eugene.
“Grahamstown is a few miles farther down the coast, and the point from which the most of the trading expeditions start for the interior. It is to Cape Colony what St. Joe and Independence used to be to our own country. A transport-rider is a teamster, who makes a business of carrying goods from one settlement to another. This man, McGregor, made a little money in that way, then went to trading and lost his last cent. It wouldn’t surprise me much if we should sink all the capital we put into the business, either,” said Uncle Dick, with a cheerful wink at the Club.
“How did he lose his money?” asked George.
“He lost the cattle he received in exchange for his merchandise,” answered Uncle Dick. “One drove died of thirst while crossing the desert, and the other was stolen by the natives, who came very near making an end of McGregor at the same time.”
“Why do you think you will lose your money?” asked Walter.
“Oh, because there’s trouble brewing between the Dutch farmers, who are called Boers, and their sworn enemies, the Griquas; and when they get at swords’ points, as they do about twice every year, they make it very unpleasant for travellers, and especially for traders. They are so cowardly that they seldom come to blows, but if they catch a stranger in their country, he is almost sure to suffer. Each side is afraid that he will lend aid and comfort to the other, and consequently both treat him as an enemy. If he passes through the country of the Griquas, they think, or pretend to think, that he has been selling munitions of war to the Boers, and straightway rob him of all he has; and if the Boers find any extra guns in his wagon, or more powder than the law allows, they accuse him of selling contraband articles to their enemies, and confiscate what he has left. We have come at the wrong time, and in that respect we are unfortunate. In other ways I think we are very lucky. We are lucky in finding this outfit, and in securing the services of McGregor. He knows the country thoroughly, and is capable of acting as interpreter. Having been a trader, he is experienced, and so we will give the management of our expedition entirely into his hands.”
“So we’re bound to be fleeced by one side or the other, are we?” said Walter.
“It looks that way now. Shall we give up the journey and go home?”