The Settler and the Savage

by R. M. Ballantyne

Whatever Jerry Goldboy might have said, that Hottentot would have replied “Ja, Mynheer,” for he understood not a word of English.

Jerry mounted with an ill-suppressed groan and rode back to the party, leaning very much forward in the saddle, while Dikkop followed, showing the white teeth in his dirty black visage from ear to ear.

Rivers soon afterwards returned with a springbok behind him, but there was no appearance of Considine or Hans. As, however, the latter was known to be an experienced traveller, no anxiety was felt for them, and the main party proceeded on its way. When night came they found that a well, on which they had counted, was dried up, and were therefore obliged to lie down without water. Several shots were fired after dark to guide the absent ones, but no reply was made. Still, those in camp felt no anxiety, knowing that Hans was quite able to take care of himself.

And so he was, truly, but he could not take care of a hot-headed youth who was as eager as Jerry in the chase, and much more daring.

At first he and Considine ran together after the springboks; then Hans got near enough, dismounted, and shot one. While he was busy fastening the carcass on his horse, Considine continued to pursue the others; going at full speed, he was soon far away on the horizon. Still Hans would have been able to see him if he had not got among some scattered groups of mimosa-bushes, which were sufficiently large to conceal him. When he remounted and looked around, his friend was not to be seen. He saw a few springboks, however, racing on the horizon in the direction in which Considine had galloped, and concluded somewhat hastily that they were pursued by his friend. Away he went, therefore, but soon discovered that he was mistaken. He turned then, and rode quickly back, blaming himself for not having followed the footprints of his friend’s horse. This he now did, and at last came up with him, but at so late an hour, and at such a distance from the line of march, that a bivouac in the plain was inevitable.

“Oh, Hans,” he said, “I’m so glad you’ve found me! I had no idea that one could get so easily lost in an open plain.”

“You’ve had enough experience too, one would think, to have remembered the vastness of the karroo,” said Hans, dismounting and making the fastenings of the springbok more secure, “A man soon dwindles to the size of a crow in plains like this, when you gallop away from him. Men not accustomed to them misjudge distances and sizes in a wonderful way. I remember once being out hunting with a fellow who mistook a waggon for a springbok!—But come, mount; we must ride on to a better camping-place than this, and be content to sleep without blankets to-night.”

“I hope the camping-place is not far off, for I’m parched with thirst,” said Considine, mounting and following at a smart gallop.

“I’m sorry for you,” returned Hans, “for you’ll see no water this night. To-morrow we’ll start early and get to the waggons by breakfast-time.”

This was depressing news to Considine, for the heat of the day and exertions of the chase had, as he expressed it, almost dried him up. There was nothing for it, however, but patience.