“Masheesh, must we send back the waggon?”
The Matabele chief spoke volubly, frequently using the word “Tati,” and then pointing to the river which was running near them, calling it sometimes the Sabe, sometimes the Ouro.
“Do you hear?” asked Wyzinski, eagerly. “The Thati and the Ramaquotan rivers run into the Limpopo, and this river he calls the Ouro, or golden river.”
“Who owns the land, Luji?” asked Hughes.
“Mozelkatse once owned it, master. Now it is the country of Machin, the Batonga, and the Banyai.”
“Can Masheesh procure a canoe? and can we go down the river?” were the next questions.
Both were answered satisfactorily. The Batonga were a friendly people, like the Bechuanas, and feared the Matabele Kaffirs, whose chief, Mozelkatse, had more than once punished them; and after a long talk, it was determined to send back the waggons and horses to the nearest mission, that at Santa Lucia Bay, and go down the river to the sea, before breaking up the camp at Gorongoza.
“It is hard to send back our waggon,” exclaimed Hughes, during a pause in the work of packing.
“We should but have to leave it and all it contains on the way, if we met with the tetse-fly. Its sting is sure death to cattle.”
“And does it harm man?” inquired Hughes.