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

Chapter Eight.
Trapped by a Tree

The feelings of the young Boer may be better imagined than described. For a time mystification, then changing to weird fear, as a sense of the supernatural stole over him. Around the spot upon which he had been pitched were several small ant-hills; so, scrambling to the top of the nearest, and then standing erect, he had the veldt under his view for miles on every side. He could see no bush, nor other cover that would have concealed an animal so large as was the buffalo. Yet buffalo there was none on it.

It now recurred to him that his unconsciousness might have been of longer duration than he had supposed it; giving the buffalo time to scamper off out of sight. But this hypothesis was also untenable for more reasons than one. For an animal of such bulk to have got beyond his view on that smooth, level plain was of itself highly improbable. Besides, why should the buffalo have run away from him? The last glimpse he had of it was while in mad, determined rush towards himself, and he knew it was the shock of its horns against the doorn-boom that had shot him off the tree as from a catapult. What reason would it have for retreating then, wounded as it was, and feeling itself, too, master of the situation, as it must have felt on becoming the aggressor? Of all this the young hunter was conscious, and not on that account the more mystified. For he had also bethought him of his three bullets sent into the buffalo’s body, recalling how carefully he had taken aim, and how their failing to bring the animal down, had surprised and puzzled him. It was then the weird fear came over him in full, almost a horror, as the mystery remained unsolved. He rubbed his eyes, and once more took a survey of the veldt; scanning it minutely all over, as he mechanically interrogated, “Am I in my senses? or has it been a dream?”

At this crisis his ears were saluted by a sound, seemingly in response to his questioning, and promising to end his perplexity. It was a loud snort, which he knew could only proceed from the throat of a buffalo-bull, and the same whose sudden disappearance had been puzzling him. Just then reverberating all over the veldt in a long, continued roar, it seemed to rise out of the earth.

But another noise in accompaniment was less misleading as to direction. This was the swish of leaves, with a snapping of twigs, as a tree tossed about by the wind. Turning his eyes upon that he had late essayed to climb, he saw it was in violent agitation; oscillating to and fro, as if under the impulse of a tornado. But the bellowing which he now knew to come from among its branches told a different tale, proclaiming the buffalo still there.

Though thus relieved from all awe of the unearthly, Piet Van Dorn was almost as much mystified as ever. What could the animal be doing by the doorn-boom, and why had it stayed there? As yet he saw it not, the thick foliage intervening, but its repeated routs, with the shakings of the tree, left no doubt about its presence. The thought flashed upon him that the bull supposed he had succeeded in ascending the tree, and was still up in it; so in blind fury had remained there, at intervals butting the trunk and bellowing.

Under this belief, both natural and probable, the first impulse of the young hunter was to take to his heels, and put space between himself and the dangerous brute, as much as the time would permit. For at any moment the bull might part from the tree, or come round it, and again catching sight of him renew the attack. So dropping down from the ant-hill, he was about to make off, when he bethought of his gun, twice shaken out of his grasp, and lying on the ground near by. But it was also dangerously near the doorn-boom, and to get hold of it would be a ticklish affair. Still, to return to the camp without his gun – bad enough having to go without his horse – would be fearfully humiliating. How delighted Andries Blom would be, and how he would crow over it!

“No! I won’t go back without the gun, at all events,” soliloquised Piet Van Dorn, with returning courage, more confidently adding, “Nor leave I this spot, till I can take with me a better account of what’s happened than I can now.”

Thus resolving, he stepped softly towards the roer, with his eye upon the shaking tree; and soon had the gun in hand again. Of course, it was empty; as while retreating before the buffalo, he had not found an opportunity to reload. Luckily, his quilted cartridge-belt was still fast buckled around his body, and a supply of percussion caps lay convenient in the pocket of his civet-skin waistcoat. Down went the cartridge and rammed home, almost as quick as a partridge-shooter could have charged his patent “central fire.” And now ready, the young jäger set face for the doorn-boom, determined to try final conclusions with the brute that had parted him from his horse, besides giving him a scare, such as he had never before experienced.

Notwithstanding his restored courage, he was far from feeling reckless, and made approach with all due caution. For as yet, much of the mystery remained unsolved, and the behaviour of the buffalo as great an enigma as ever. The animal still continued its terrific routing, while the tree zig-zagged to and fro, both trunks, as though threatening to break down with a double crash. But for the thick foliage around the base, the young hunter would long before have had explanation of a thing so incomprehensible. It came at last, however, as he drew close in to the tree, and saw the buffalo with neck caught between the twin trunk, fixed and fast as if in a vice. In its furious rush it had forced its head through; the young flexible stems parting to let it pass, then reclosing; the neck was held as in a yoke, and the huge buttressed horns could not be drawn back again. So the bull had trapped himself in a tree!

Seeing how things stood, Piet Van Dorn could not restrain himself from giving way to loud laughter. He did smile, a vengeful smile, as he thought of the trouble the black brute had put him to, with the chagrin it had caused him. But the better feeling of humanity soon triumphed over that of anger and revenge. He saw that the buffalo had received its death wound, from the shots he had fired at it, and its struggles in the clasp of the doorn-boom were but its last throes of life. Mercy appealed to him to put an end to them; which he did by stepping close up to the animal, and sending a fourth bullet into its body; this was so aimed as to deprive it of life, with scarce a kick given after.

Chapter Nine.
Belated on the Veldt

For that day Piet Van Dorn’s hunting was at at an end, but with a finale far from satisfactory to him. True, he had succeeded in killing the buffalo, and would not have to return to camp trophyless. But how about his horse? The latter might be there before him – in all likelihood was there already – if not lost on the veldt. If lost, it would be no slight misfortune; his mount being of the best ever ridden by a Vee-Boer, and one that could not well be replaced. Still he had not yet come to contemplating the matter in so serious a light; trusting to the animal’s instinct to guide it back to its companions. But even this would have sinister consequences. That anything could have parted him and his pet steed, above all a tumble, and its becoming known to the fair fräulein, his ladye love, was aught but pleasant to contemplate. And the horse returning riderless would naturally create alarm in the camp, where, besides a sweetheart, he had an affectionate mother and sisters who would be in an agony of apprehension about him, he knew.

Furthermore, the thought of having to trudge it back afoot, wounded as he was – in fact a good deal disabled – was of itself sufficiently disagreeable. But just on this account was it necessary for him to start off at once.

The sun was now little more than the breadth of its own disc above the horizon; and, if night caught him upon the veldt, he might have to stay in it till morning, almost certainly would.

Thus reflecting, he made no longer delay than the occasion called for. Bleeding wounds were to be bound up; ugly scratches got in the attempt at climbing the doorn-boom, and a thorn or two that still stuck in his flesh had to be extracted. Then there was the reloading of his gun, which it was not prudent to have empty in such a place. Finally he cut off the buffalo’s tail, to be taken along, less by way of trophy, than as evidence that, despite so many other mischances, he had not failed as a hunter. He would have preferred taking the horns, as he had never before seen so grand a pair; besides, it was to them he owed the life left him. But for their getting entangled in the tree, instead of his now, in cold blood, cutting off the buffalo’s tail, the brute might have been standing over his lifeless body, trampling it into a mash. But, notwithstanding the service the horns had done him, and tempting as a trophy, it would take some time to detach them from the head, more than he had to spare, and in his disabled state they would be too much of a burden. So, shouldering his gun, with the bull’s tail tied to its muzzle, he strode away from a spot so replete with incident, and what, but a short while before, seemed mystery incomprehensible.

Though comprehending it now, his perplexities were not over nor his troubles at an end. Scarce had he commenced moving off when the hitherto unthought of question occurred to him —

“What direction am I to take?”

It may seem strange his not thinking of this before; but men in his situation rarely do. The traveller on African plain or American prairie only becomes conscious of being lost when he is lost. Just such tardy consciousness now came to Piet Van Dorn, but with so keen a sense of it as to bring him to an abrupt stop before he had made half-a-dozen steps.

For a time he stood scanning the horizon around, but saw nothing there to give him guidance. He had hoped to descry a dark line along it; the timber skirting the stream by which they had encamped; but nothing of this was in sight. Even the great mowana, with several others of its kind he knew to be near it, were below the level of the plain. ²⁶. This added to his uneasiness, telling of the long distance he would have to tramp it, even with direction known. But the last was his present trouble, and he bent himself, with all the energies of his mind, to determine it. What assistance could he get from the sun? Nothing else seemed to promise any, so he turned his gaze upon that. He remembered its having been before his face while he was pursuing the buffalo; well remembered this, as it had been in his eyes, and so dazzled them as to interfere with his aim. Indeed, he blamed it, more than aught else, for his having failed to bring the animal down. But the sun had since changed place in the sky; true, not much, still enough to make it a blind guide, notwithstanding its brightness.

It would help him in a way, however; and turning his back upon it, he was about to start off eastward, when lo! tracks on the ground before him! Two sorts of hoof-marks there were; one cloven, the other whole and shod. The presence of neither surprised him, knowing, as he did, what animals had made them – of course the buffalo and his own horse. It was where he had fired his third shot, and the chase had come to an end by the bull rounding upon him. But beyond he could see the same tracks in a long line over the veldt, indicating the direction in which he had approached the place. There was no need for longer doubt or hesitation, he could not do better than take the trail of the chase backward; and back on it he went.

Not far, however, before again getting interrupted. Out of some low scrub, through which it led, came a peal of wild hysterical laughter, that, to ears unacquainted with it, and in such a solitary place, would have been appalling. But Piet Van Dorn knew the sort of creature that laughed; was sure of its being the same which had lately saluted him in a similar manner, as if mockingly. Remembering this, recalling also, that to it he was indebted for the loss of his horse, with other resultant troubles, quick as lightning, he jerked his gun from his shoulder, and lowered it to the level. Almost at the same instant he perceived the hyena making off through the bushes, as it sent back another of its unearthly cachinnations – the last it ever uttered. It did not even succeed in finishing that, being abruptly silenced by a bullet that dropped it dead in its tracks; the loud report of the roer replacing the animal’s voice in prolonged reverberation over the plain.

With something like a feeling of satisfied vengeance, the young hunter saw the hyena roll over dead. But for it he might still have been astride his noble steed – almost surely would – with the buffalo’s grand horns carried on the croup behind him. And how different his situation – how aggravating! But there was no time to dwell on it, however; so, hastily ramming down another cartridge, and without even deigning to look at the worthless quarry killed, he continued on.

So long as daylight lasted, there would be no difficulty about his taking up the trail; he could sight it going at a run. And run he did, now and then, despite his crippled condition, so anxious was he to get back to camp, though less on his own account than that of the anxious ones there. Besides, to be out all night on the veldt alone and weakened as he was, were of itself a thing of danger. Not only cowardly hyenas, but courageous leopards, even lions, might be prowling about and make prey of him.

With such incentives to haste, he made it – all that was in his power. But despite all, he saw the sun sink down below the horizon without getting sight of the belt of timber he was looking for. Nor came it in view during the short interval of twilight that succeeded, and through which he had hastened on without halt or pause, till night’s darkness was almost down. Then he made stop, and ascended an ant-hill, with a half-despairing hope that from its summit he might descry the wished-for beacon – perhaps see the lights of the laager fires.

He saw them not, neither blaze nor spark; and, as night had now drawn its sable mantle around him, he had but the two alternatives – stay where he was, or go blindly groping onward. Making choice of the former, he stayed.

Chapter Ten.
A Horse Chased by Wild Hounds

That night there were sore hearts in the camp under the mowana, and eyes that closed not in sleep. A mother lay awake, thinking apprehensively about her son; sisters in like manner were in fear for the fate of a brother; while a young girl, not sister, but sweetheart, was no less uneasy about the absence of a lover.

Perhaps had Piet Van Dorn, the object of this concentrated solicitude, been only sure of its being shared by Katharina Rynwald – for she was the waking sweetheart – the long, unhappy hours he was constrained to pass upon the veldt would have seemed shorter, and been less irksome. As it was, he too slept little, in part kept awake by the pain of his wounds, and partly by torturing thoughts. Withal, he took steps for passing the night, in the best and safest way possible under the circumstances. Anticipating a heavy dew, – which indeed, had already begun to fall – with that raw chilliness, as much the accompaniment of a tropical night as of one in northern climes, he had need to take precautions against it. Thinly and lightly clad, just as when interrupted at target-practice, ever since hotly engaged, and all over perspiration, experience told him there was danger from this alone. So, warned by it, soon as he had made up his mind to remain there he dropped down from the ant-hill, and bethought himself of kindling a fire. But for this the luck was against him. There was no wood near, nor anywhere within sight; not a stick. All around the veldt was treeless, and alike bare of bushes; the only relief to its monotonous nakedness being some score or two ant-hills, like hayricks scattered over it.

Yes, there was something more, which after a time came under his eyes; some tall bunch grass growing at no great distance off, or rather had grown, for it was now withered and dead. True, it would not make a fire that could be kept up; but the young hunter saw it might be utilised in a way almost as good, by making a warm bed of it. Soon as thought of, he unsheathed his hunting-knife, and set to cutting the grass, as reaper with “hook and crook.” Nor stayed he his hand, till several large armfuls lay along the earth. These, one after another, he carried up to the ant-hill he had first stopped at, and which, as already ascertained by him, had been abandoned by its insect builders.

It was but the task of a few seconds to form the dry grass into a rough, but fairly comfortable couch; upon which he lay down, drawing the straggled selvedge over him, by way of blanket and coverlet. Thus snugly ensconced, he took out his pipe, with flint, steel, and tinder, struck a light, and commenced smoking.

One passing near, and seeing a red coal glowing in that heap of haylike grass, with smoke rising in curls over it, might have wondered at the grass not catching fire, and blazing up. But there was no one passing near, or likely to pass; and Piet Van Dorn continued puffing away in solitary silence.

After a time the tobacco in his pipe was burnt to the bottom; but finding it had given him some relief from the stinging of his sores, he refilled the pipe bowl, and went on smoking.

At length the narcotic property of the weed produced a soporific effect; Morpheus demanded his toll; and the wearied hunter, despite pain of wounds, and mental anxiety, sank into sleep, meerschaum in mouth. Luckily, he lay on his back, and the pipe from habit was held tight between his teeth, till the ashes in it became cold. Had it been otherwise, he might have soon and suddenly waked up, to find himself as a rat in the heart of a burning hayrick.

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 ²⁷ 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.