So saying, Frank placed his body against the face of the cliff or rock, which was all but perpendicular, and Tom, without any hesitation, sprang upon his shoulders and clambered into the cave. The gun and assegais were next handed up, then Tom, lying down flat on his stomach, reached over the edge of the cave as far as he dare, and seizing his friend’s outstretched hands, hauled him up. The cave was just deep and wide enough for them to turn round, and just high enough to allow of their squatting on their haunches like a couple of Hindoos; the entrance was partially hidden by an overhanging bush.
Hardly had our friends concealed themselves, when—as though they had dropped from the clouds—a score of sinewy black forms appeared in the valley, and took up a position on either side of the track, directly beneath the cave; they were armed with assegais only, and did not present a very warlike appearance; in fact it was evident that they were of quite a different race to Sandilli’s dusky warriors.
“I don’t believe these fellows will molest us,” Frank Jamieson said with a sigh of relief. “They probably belong to one of the pastoral tribes inhabiting the country in the vicinity of Campbeldorp, and are now on a hunting expedition. Ha! I thought so.”
And as he spoke a vast herd of small deer—beautiful animals, graceful of form and of a light cinnamon colour on the back, with white bellies and legs—came leaping and bounding along the valley, pursued by a number of savages, all yelling and shrieking at the very top of their voices.
“They’re spring-bok,” said Tom, leaning forward to get a fair view of the deer. “I wish I had my double-barrel! A good juicy steak off one of those fellows wouldn’t come amiss, eh, Frank?”
“No indeed,” replied the other. “But, I say, old fellow, take care you don’t overbalance yourself. I wouldn’t trust too much to that bush.”
The leaders of the herd of deer were now almost abreast of the cave, and the sable hunters, who were lying in wait along the path, rushed in upon them. Then commenced a scene of slaughter; numbers of the affrighted spring-bok being slain by the assegais of the savages, whilst not a few fell down and died from sheer terror.
This cruel and unsportsmanlike butchery was at its height when, forgetful of his friend’s warning, Tom Flinders leaned forward to obtain a better view of the scene, and in order to preserve his balance he caught hold of the bush which overhung the entrance of the cave; but, as Frank had suspected, the bush was not very firmly rooted, and so of a sudden it gave way, and poor Tom pitched head first out of the cave and landed right on the shoulders of one of the savages, who fell sprawling amongst the spring-bok, with our hero on the top of him.
Now nine feet is not a very terrible distance to tumble (though, of course, a great deal depends on how a person falls—for there’s a knack in falling, as everybody should know), and Tom would probably have escaped with a few bruises, had he not unfortunately rolled from off the prostrate savage right in front of another, who was in the very act of spearing a spring-bok; the consequence was that his sharp weapon took effect in the biped instead of the quadruped; that is to say, poor Tom received a severe wound, the assegai-head being driven clean through his leg from side to side, an inch or two above the knee-cap.
The sudden and startling appearance of a white man in their midst so electrified the hunters that they stood stock-still, and allowed the spring-bok to dash onward through the valley without attempting to stop them; thus the greater number of the herd would certainly have galloped over Tom’s body, and probably have injured him not a little, had not Frank Jamieson dropped down from the cave, and rushing forward dragged his friend out of harm’s way. Tom was indeed badly hurt, and when Frank drew the assegai from the wound the pain was so sharp that the poor fellow fainted right away.