Slowly Junkie picked his way up the ragged path towards the gnarled tree. The leopard, scarcely believing in his good luck, licked his lips. Rapidly the Bushman and his men descended the same path.
They rode on horses—stolen horses, of course. The leopard heard the clatter of hoofs and looked back. Junkie drew nearer to the gnarled tree; the leopard looked forward. Never was savage beast more thoroughly perplexed. Anxiety glared in his eyes; exasperation grinned in his teeth; indecision quivered in the muscles of his tail. Just at that moment Booby caught sight of his spotted skin. Had the leopard been less perturbed he would have been too wise to allow his carcass to appear. A poisoned arrow instantly quivered in his flank. It acted like a spur; with an angry growl and a clear bound of no one knows how many feet, he re-entered the jungle and fled to the mountains.
Petrified again, Junkie remained motionless till the Bushmen robbers rode up. Booby knew that his leopard was safe, for a poisoned arrow is sure to kill in time, so he did not care to hasten after it just then, but preferred to continue his approach to the white man’s habitations. Great, then, was his amazement when he all but rode over Junkie.
Amazement was quickly succeeded by alarm. His knowledge of the white man’s ways and habits told him at once the state of affairs. The appearance of Junkie in the company of “tigers” and baboons, was, he knew well, a mere juvenile indiscretion. He also knew that parental instincts among white men were keen, and thence concluded that discovery and pursuit would be immediate. His own plans were therefore not only defeated, but his own safety much endangered, as his presence was sure to be discovered by his tracks. “Let’s be off instanter,” was the substance of Booby’s communication to his brethren. The brethren agreed, but Booby had lived among white men, and although his own particular master was a scoundrel, there were those of his household—especially among the females—who had taught him something of Christian pity. He could not leave the child to the tender mercies of wild beasts. He did not dare to convey him back to the cottage of Kenneth McTavish. What was he to do? Delay might be death! In these circumstances he seized the horrified Junkie by the arm, swung him on the pommel of his saddle, and galloped away up the kloof and over the mountains into the deepest recesses of Kafirland.
When Mrs Scholtz awoke that morning, rubbed her eyes, looked up and discovered that Junkie’s crib was empty, she sprang from her bed, perceived the open lattice, and gave vent to an awful scream. In barbarous times and regions a shriek is never uttered in vain. The McTavish household was instantly in the room, some of them in deshabille—some armed—all alarmed.
“Oh my!—oh me!” cried Mrs Scholtz, leaping back into bed with unfeminine haste, “he’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?” asked McTavish.
“Junkie!”
“What! where? when? how? why?” said Mrs McTavish, Jessie, and others.
Mrs Scholtz gasped and pointed to the lattice; at the same time she grasped her garments as a broad hint to the men. They took it hastily.