The Vee-Boers: A Tale of Adventure in Southern Africa

by Mayne Reid

As it chanced, he slumbered long, though how long he could not tell. Dreamt also; in his dream, fancying himself still charged upon by the buffalo and that he heard its heavy tread on the firm turf as it came thundering towards him! But was it fancy? Was the thing all a dream? Questions he put to himself, when at length awakened by the visionary scene, he lay listening. No, not all. The trampling sound was real and recognisable; not as made by a buffalo, but the hoof strokes of a galloping horse! Had there been any doubt about this, what instantly succeeded would have solved it—a neigh ringing clear and shrill on the calm night air.

Quick as a Jack-in-the-box, Piet Van Dorn was upon his feet; and with like alertness leaped up to the top of the ant-hill. The moon had meanwhile risen, and her light flooded the veldt all over, making objects distinguishable on it at far distance, almost as by day. But it did not need looking far for him to see the horse, nor an instant of time in recognising the animal as his own. Not much longer, either, was he in learning why it galloped and screamed—for it was more scream than neigh that had waked up the echoes of the night: still waking them, in quick successive bursts, as the horse rushed affrightedly to and fro. No wonder at his fright with such a following; full a hundred other animals flecked and spotted, as seen under the clear moonlight: to all appearance a pack of hounds in pursuit of him! And hounds were they, but such as never came out of kennel; far fiercer than these, for they were the wilde-honden (Note 1) of South Africa. They were scattered over the veldt, in squads here and there, with the horse careering from point to point between them; and go in what direction he would, it was to get headed off by one group or another.

At a glance the young hunter took in the situation, and trembled for his steed. The poor animal was black with sweat, and evidently far exhausted. No doubt it had been running thus pursued for hours, and at any moment now might be pulled down, and torn to pieces. How was such a fate to be averted? How could the horse be saved.

The first impulse of its master, so interrogating himself, was to catch hold of his gun, and rush out to the rescue. The gun he caught hold of; but then came the thought, that instead of saving the horse, he would be himself sacrificed. Well knew he the habits of the wilde-honden with their fierce, savage nature, and that, in their then excited state, man would be no more feared by them than horse, or any other animal. It would be like bearding a pack of hungry wolves; in fact, flinging away his life. But what ought he to do? What could he? Nothing.

“Ah! yes; something!” he exclaimed, hope returning with a thought that had flashed across his brain. “There may still be a chance, if I can make him hear me.”

Saying which, he thrust the tips of three fingers between his lips, and blew a whistle that went screeching across the veldt, repeating it several times. But much repetition was not necessary.

At the first note of it reaching his ears, the horse was seen to give a start of recognition; then, as the second was sent after, the sagacious animal, trained to the signal, answered it with a joyous neigh, and came galloping up to the ant-hills. In half a minute more he was among them; and now guided by a well-known voice, soon stood by his master’s side, panting, quivering in every fibre of his frame, but confidently whimpering, as if at length assured of safety.

But he was not safe yet; neither he, nor his master, as the latter well knew. If he did not, it was instantly made known to him, as he saw the wilde-honden gather in from all sides trooping after. In a trice they too had entered among the ant-hills, and were still coming on for that beside which he and the horse stood. To the young hunter it was a crisis, dangerous as when being charged by the buffalo, and equally slight seemed his chance of escape. He had dropped back to the ground—knowing he would be no safer on the ant-heap, which the clawed creatures could easily scale—and stood holding his horse in hand. The animal was still under saddle and bridle, as when it ran away from him. Should he spring upon its back, and attempt to escape by flight? Impossible. The horse was already tottering on his legs; another mile, perhaps half that with a rider on his back, and he would surely go to grass.

Piet Van Dorn was left no time for deliberation. What he did after was done in hottest haste, unreflectingly, almost despairingly. Yet were its results of the best; could not have been better, if planned deliberately and in coolest blood. He first discharged his roer at the nearest and foremost of the honden, which went rolling over with a howl. The report of the gun—noise so unexpected—caused the rest to falter and hang back; then, before they had recovered confidence, they were saluted by a second clap of that thunder, so new to them, with its blaze of lightning, which still further cowed them. For all, they did not yet seem inclined to retreat; and Piet Van Dorn, fancying the flash more frightened them than the crack, suddenly bethought him of a way to make it more effective. Quickly striking a light, he set fire to the withered grass, on which he had lately been lying. It caught at once, flaring up with a flame that mocked the moon. And to keep it ablaze he employed the long barrel of his now empty gun, fork fashion, tossing the tufts of burning grass high in the air, all the while shouting at the loudest pitch of his voice. Continuing to shout so, he would soon have been hoarse. Fortunately he was spared this infliction; for the wilde-honden, at first sight of the conflagration, which they doubtless believed to be the veldt on fire, took to their heels, and scampered off in every direction; leaving the young hunter, and his newly-recovered horse, masters and sole possessors of the field.