The blacks—to the number of fifty or sixty—now crowded round, and one of them—who appeared to be in authority—addressed Frank in broken English, volunteering his assistance, and assuring him that he had nothing to fear.
“My name is Ntlororo, and I am captain of a kraal,” said he. “My tribe is at peace with our white brethren, and we will help you in your trouble.”
Frank thanked the chief most warmly, and inquired how far distant his kraal might be.
“Twelve miles,” Ntlororo replied. “But my hunters shall carry your friend thither,” he quickly added, seeing his “white brother’s” face fall considerably. “We will start at once.”
He then gave some orders to his men, who commenced to collect the spring-bok they had slain, whilst Frank, with Ntlororo’s aid, bound up Tom’s injured leg. As soon as the stricken deer were all collected, a rough litter was formed of assegais covered with a kaross; on to this Tom was lifted, and the whole party quitted the scene of slaughter and marched up the valley—Frank Jamieson (forgetful of his fatigue and hunger in his thankfulness and excitement) walking beside the litter. The spring-bok were carried on the shoulders of the hunters, who kept up a sort of triumphant chant as they trudged along.
They were soon clear of the mountain, and three hours’ march brought them to a green savannah, plentifully intersected by the spoor of cattle; which showed Frank Jamieson that they were not any great distance from the kraal. Another half-hour’s “heel and toe,” and the party came in sight of a cluster of ant-hills dotting a grassy slope leading down to a small river, beyond which lay the kraal.
But it was not the sight of the native village that drew forth an exclamation of astonished delight from Frank Jamieson’s lips!
No, indeed! He scarcely noticed the bee-hive-shaped huts, for his eager eyes were fixed upon a couple of large bullock-waggons outspanned on the banks of the river.