Harley Greenoak's Charge

If anything should come of this matter, and Sir Anson considered that he had failed in his responsibility, he would unhesitatingly forego any remuneration; but his anxiety rested on higher grounds than pecuniary loss. He had a great liking for his charge, and for his charge’s father, and, worse still perhaps, his reliability would stand impugned. Now, it was precisely for reliability that Harley Greenoak enjoyed a reputation little short of infallible, and of this he himself was aware, and, though secretly, was intensely proud.

He wondered if Hesketh – sly old fox – had brought about the situation with deliberate design, in order to do a good turn to his kinsfolk. It might well have been – and one could hardly blame him if it were so. Instinctively Greenoak realised that it would be useless for him to interfere at this stage. He had tried it at an earlier one, though “interfere” is too strong a word for the easy, natural, tactful way in which he had suggested they should move somewhere else. His charge, equally and naturally, but quite good-humouredly, had scouted the idea. Hesketh would be hurt, he had declared. He was no end of a jolly old chap, and he, Dick, wouldn’t offend him for the world. And then Haakdoornfontein was no end of a jolly place, with a different shoot, by Jingo, for every day in the year. And Greenoak had laughed drily, as he reflected that his charge’s enthusiasm for that form of sport had flagged perceptibly of late. But like a wise man and a tactful one he had known better than to push the suggestion further. Things must just take their course, he decided. A matter of this kind was a delicate one, and one in which the man most concerned must judge for himself. At any rate, it was clean outside his own province.

“These young ’uns, you know, will have their heads,” now went on old Hesketh, puffing out smoke. “I suppose we took our doses of foolishness, Greenoak, when we were at their time. Though, I dunno about me. It was just ‘yes or no’ with the old woman, ‘take it or leave it.’ She took it, and managed the place. I don’t know, either, that things haven’t been quieter – well, since I’ve managed it myself,” he added drily.

There lay the summing up of a lifetime; a hard, lonely, matter-of-fact, out-of-the-world lifetime. Greenoak nodded. He was not going to make any comment on the situation. He was not going to ruffle his old friend’s susceptibilities by any suggestion that Dick’s father might object, more or less strongly, to the said situation and its logical outcome. Old Hesketh’s social creed was simplicity itself: “Black’s black and white’s white, and one white man’s as good as another, and no better.” This Greenoak knew.

Again he wondered whether Hesketh had brought about the situation with a purpose. Hesketh was a mine of natural shrewdness, and here was scope for it. Dick Selmes had spent some three weeks on this wild and remote place, roughing it as he had probably never dreamed of roughing it, his sole companions one old and one elderly man – Greenoak was modest, you see. Then, enter a bright, pretty, taking girl, who makes the rough places, as by magic, smooth, imports the refinement to which his charge has been accustomed, with one sweep of the wand, and whose personality is in itself a supplement to the sunshine. No contrast could be more strongly marked. Assuredly if Hesketh had of his own intuition brought off such a dramatic stroke, why, Hesketh was more of a genius than the acquaintance of that rugged old recluse would have given him credit for being. But this reflection did not tend to lighten Harley Greenoak’s private disquietude.

Chapter Seven.

Good News

“When are you going to shoot another back for us, Mr Selmes?” Hazel Brandon was saying. “As officer in charge of the Commissariat Department, it’s my duty to tell you that if you don’t we shall have to begin on mutton, and it’s your especial mission to keep us in game. So – when are you?”

“When you come and help me do it.”

“Help you? Yes – like the other evening when we went to voor-ly for a bush-buck over Slaang Draai, and you talked so much that although we sat there till it was dark none came out. Now what sort of ‘help’ is that?”

He looked down into the bright, teasing face, and thought he had seldom – or was it ever? – looked upon any sight which delighted him more.

“Well, you helped me to talk anyhow,” he said. “Now didn’t you?”

One form of sport was to gain a point overlooking this or that bushy kloof about an hour before sundown and sit still, waiting till the bush-bucks began to move. Thus a shot was to be obtained when one showed upon an open space. Dick Selmes, who had become a very fair rifle shot, had bagged several this way. The occasion to which the girl had referred was one on which he had persuaded her to accompany him – with the remit described.

“Never mind,” he went on, without waiting for her answer. “It was no end jolly all the same. Wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I seem to remember it became no end cold,” she laughed. “But you’re trying to get away from the point. You must go and shoot a buck for me this afternoon. Why, you hardly ever hunt now. You’re getting quite lazy.”

It was a coincidence that her uncle should be making substantially the same remark about a quarter of a mile away.

“Lazy! I like that. How about all those jolly rides we’ve been having? Lazy!”

“Well, I didn’t mean it in its strictly literal sense,” she answered. “Yes, I have enjoyed those rides.”

Hazel had been about a fortnight at Haakdoornfontein, and during that time she and Dick Selmes had become very friendly indeed. It was the old story – youth, mutual attraction and propinquity, and but for the fact that she was the stronger minded of the two, and adhered to a rigid resolution not to neglect her self-imposed household duties, it is probable that their elders would have seen very little of her or of either of them.

“You know, it was quite a surprise to me to find you and Mr Greenoak here,” she went on. “You know Uncle Eph by this time. Well, he never writes a word that he isn’t obliged to; so when mother sent a boy with a note to say I was coming, he just returned for answer ‘Glad to see her.’ That and no more.”

“By Jove!” cried Dick. “And you didn’t know we were here.”

“Not an atom. I expected to find him alone, as usual. He never has people here.”

“We ought to be flattered then. Greenoak thinks your uncle got him here on purpose to try and clear up that Slaang Kloof mystery. But that’s ancient history now, and he doesn’t seem to want us to go. He objected, quite strongly for him, when I suggested moving on.”

“Did he? He has taken quite a fancy to you. I never knew him so gracious to any man under about fifty before. He’s usually grim.”

“I think him a dear old chap,” said Dick, decisively. “Such a character too. Well, I’m jolly glad he didn’t take me at my word,” with a meaning look at the sweet sparkling face beside him; which look the owner of the said face chose utterly to ignore. But from the foregoing dialogue it is obvious that Harley Greenoak’s suspicions as to his host’s complicity in any possible complications with regard to his charge were without foundation in fact.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr Greenoak was right, and that Uncle Eph did get him up here to clear up the mystery,” said Hazel. “Though none of you – not even you – will ever tell me what that mystery is,” she added reproachfully. “Well, never mind. I’m not going to press you to. I believe I’ll ask Kleinbooi though.”

Whereby it will be seen that Harley Greenoak’s advice to the other two concerned, to keep silence as to the nature of the Slaang Kloof mystery, had been rigidly adhered to.

Dick laughed. “You might as well ask that tree.”

“Does he know?”

“I don’t suppose he knows, but if he guesses he’d sooner hang himself than let on a word.”

“Do you know, Mr Greenoak has a reputation for clearing up mysteries. There was that haunted farm on the Sneeuw River in our neighbourhood. No one could stay there; all sorts of weird things happened. The new owner – who bought it for a song, on the strength of its dark reputation – got Mr Greenoak to investigate the affair, and he cleared it up to the satisfaction of all concerned; and the new people never had any more bother or disturbance. They’ve lived there ever since. But Mr Greenoak never let go a word as to what the mystery was or how he had put an end to it; no, not even to the owner himself.”

“Well, I shan’t ask him,” said Dick Selmes, very interested, “for it’s a dead cert that if he never told anybody else he won’t tell me.”

“There are other stories about him, too. Once he was instrumental in saving two Kafirs from being hanged – only just in the nick of time – for the murder of a Dutchman’s wife, by finding out that it had been done by the Dutchman himself.”

“Was the Dutchman hanged?”

“He would have been, only he got away to the Transvaal in time. He was safe there, of course.”

“Well, I hope if Greenoak gets on to any more enterprises of the kind he’ll cut me into them with him – that’s all,” said Dick. “Hallo! Here’s Kleinbooi.”

“Baas,” said the Fingo, saluting, “I got very good bit news. There’s a big tiger fast in the trap, up there, in Slaang Kloof. I go tell Ou’ Baas. He come quick shoot it.”

“Oh, good – and good again!” cried Dick. “We’ll go up there sharp.”

“Oh, never mind me. Only, I don’t feel inclined to run,” said Hazel, mischievously; for her companion in his excitement had started off with quick eager strides.

“So sorry,” answered Dick, contritely, at once falling back.

“Never mind,” said the girl, “go on ahead and tell them. Things in traps break loose sometimes if left too long. So the sooner we get there the better.”

“We? Are you going with us, then?” eagerly.

“Certainly. So tell them to saddle up a horse for me too. Now go on, and don’t lose any time, or the tiger may break loose before we get there and get clean away.”

Presumably everybody knows that there is no such thing as a tiger on the whole African continent – north, south, east, or west. What everybody, however, may not know is that in the southern section of the same, “tiger” is the colloquial word used to designate leopard, and that invariably; hence, of course, the trapped beast in this case represented not “Stripes” but “Spots.”

“Well, well,” said old Hesketh, when he was told, “that’s good news certainly. How was he caught, Kleinbooi?”

“By one fore leg, Baas. He seems fast, but it might be as well to go and shoot him, now at once.”

“Ja, that’s so. Tell Dirk to saddle up three horses – it don’t matter which – what’s that? Four?” turning to his niece, who had just joined them. “Four, did you say, girlie?”

“Certainly,” said Hazel. “I’m going too. I don’t why I should be left out of the fun.”

The old man chuckled.

“All right,” he said. Then ironically, “How long’ll you take getting ready? Half an hour?”

“Half a minute,” she answered, withdrawing to change into a habit skirt, and reappearing in not more than double the time named. Then they started. “Get back, you schelms, get back!” vociferated old Hesketh, whipping back the dogs, who, scenting sport, had sprung up, whining and yowling with delight. “We don’t want you to-day. They’d spoil the skin, you know, if they started to worry it,” he added in explanation to Dick. “Besides, some of ’em are bound to get badly chawed. A trapped tiger’s no joke to anything that gets within reach of the brute. Clear them out, Kleinbooi.”

This the Fingo did with the aid of sticks and stones, and much forcible expostulation, and the disappointed pack slunk back, to console itself by getting up a civil war on its own account.

“Don’t fire at anything on the way, Dick,” enjoined Greenoak, as they started. “No matter what gets up, let it go. Our catch might quite possibly pull himself loose if he got a sudden schrek.”

Dick nodded, and went on with his conversation with Hazel, by whose side it is hardly necessary to explain he was riding. Old Hesketh was shambling along on a correspondingly veteran steed, but he had no firearm. It didn’t require three men to shoot one trapped tiger, he had declared, and he wasn’t going to be bothered carrying unnecessary articles. Greenoak on this occasion had his .500 Express, and Dick Selmes his combination rifle and smooth-bore.

“I only wish the beast was loose,” said the latter to his companion. “There’d be rare fun in hunting him then.”

“You may still have your wish, Dick,” said Greenoak over his shoulder.

“I hope not,” said Hazel, quickly. “And yet – I oughtn’t to mind with two such dead shots beside me. Yes – I think it would be rather exciting.”

Secretly the girl was not quite at ease. They were in Slaang Kloof now. Riding beneath the cool shade of the trees, the dim sunlight falling in network patches where it struggled through the “monkey-ropes” trailing from bough to ground, there was a sense of dim mystery seeming to grow out of the place. So strongly did it affect her, that although not in the least given to hysteria, Hazel Brandon realised that were she alone here now, she would be conscious of a deadly fear. As it was, what if the trapped beast had broken loose, and in its mad rage were to pounce upon them suddenly? No, the thought was not a reassuring one.

Chapter Eight.

The Trapped Leopard

Soon the forest began to lighten and the tall yellow-wood trees to give way to high scrub with open patches here and there. Here the Fingo, Kleinbooi, who had been striding on in front, his kerrie over his shoulder, now signed them to dismount. This they did, and the horses were made fast to convenient boughs.

Guided by Kleinbooi they walked cautiously forward, the three men in front, the girl just behind; Dick Selmes and Greenoak with their pieces in readiness. Then a vicious snarl, and the clank of iron told them that the object of their quest was reached, and that at any rate it had not yet succeeded in breaking loose.

A small runlet here trickled down the kloof in a chain of water-holes. Beside one of these, in a stony open space, stood a magnificent leopard. The great iron gin trap had caught the poor beast just above one front pad, and the powerful grip held him firmly.

At sight of his intending destroyers the creature sank down into a crouching attitude, uttering a hideous yell that was half a snarl, evoked by the renewed agony of the movement. His unwounded forepaw was over the trap, his hindquarters gathered beneath him as though for a spring, and his long tail waved viciously to and fro. A deep, hoarse, snarling growl issued from his throat, and in his yellow eyes was a perfectly fiend-like glare of helpless ferocity. His jaws were dropping great flakes of foam reddened with blood, for he had been plentifully licking his wounded limb.

“Oh, do shoot, and have done with it,” whispered Hazel, shuddering violently.

“Hold on, Greenoak. Don’t blaze yet,” said Dick Selmes, who had not heard. “I want to have a closer look.”

“Better not,” warned Harley Greenoak, who had already got his quarry covered. “He might break loose, or the chain might give,” – the trap was chained to a tree.

But the other laughed recklessly, and continued to advance – we dare not swear that the consciousness of having a certain form of gallery to play to did not add to his rashness. He halted within very few yards of the maddened beast.

The latter was now frightful to behold. He seemed to flatten himself lower in his crouch. The great speckled head literally opened, until, viewed in section, it resembled a crescent. The lips were drawn back from the formidable fangs till the contracted folds of the skin well-nigh closed the glaring eyes, and the infuriated snarl had become something terrific.

Suddenly every muscle in the beast’s body was seen to stiffen. With an appalling yell it flung itself forward. Dick Selmes was hurled to the ground, half stunned; his confused senses feebly conscious of the crash of a report, leading him to suppose he had been shot by accident.

“Well of all the complete young idiots I ever saw, you are the champion one,” cried old Hesketh, with excusable heat, having ascertained that his guest was uninjured. The latter laughed, rather feebly, for he felt sore all over.

“What’s the row, eh? Greenoak, I thought you’d shot me.”

“The row? Look there,” was the answer grimly given.

Dick screwed himself round. There lay the iron trap – empty, and further on, the spotted corpse of the great leopard. He himself was between the two.

“Lucky Greenoak’s got the eye of a hawk, and the quickness of a flash of lightning,” said his host, grimly. “I know I could never have got in that shot in time. How would you be feeling now if the brute’s spring hadn’t been cut short? He was stone dead in the middle of it when he knocked you over.”

“Did he knock me over then?” said Dick, rising to his feet.

“Rather,” answered Greenoak. “Even then the muscular contraction of his claws might have given you fits; but he made a bad shot – only hit you with his shoulder and knocked you flying.”

They gathered round the splendid beast, grim and terrible still in death. The heavy Express bullet had gone clean through the heart.

“By George, but I’ve had a narrow squeak for it!” ejaculated Dick. Then his glance fell upon Hazel Brandon, who was standing a little in the background, white and shuddering, and his heart smote him with self-wrath and contempt. He had thought to show off, and had only succeeded in frightening her, and making a most egregious ass of himself.

“Oh, Miss Brandon, I’m so sorry I’ve given you a scare!” he exclaimed penitently. “But it’s all right now. Come and look at the tiger – such a splendid beast.”

“Well, you did give me rather a fright,” she said, with a faint smile, while the colour returned to her cheeks. “But – what a splendid shot!”

“Wasn’t it!” answered Dick, whole-heartedly, at the same time not quite able to help wishing that the positions had been exactly reversed. He was conscious, too, that this was the third time Harley Greenoak had stepped between himself and sure and certain death. The latter was thinking the same thing, and was more than ever convinced that Sir Anson had spoken the bare truth in saying that he would find his charge no sinecure. The while he had drawn his sheath knife and was tucking up his shirt-sleeves.

“We’ll just strip off this uncommonly fine skin, Kleinbooi and I,” he announced imperturbably. “But as it isn’t a pleasant process to watch, I’d suggest that Miss Brandon should wait for us where we left the horses.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Dick, briskly. “Come along, Miss Brandon. We’ll wait there.”

Having thrown off her temporary scare, Hazel turned to her uncle and rated him soundly for having the trap set at all It was abominably cruel, she declared, unsportsmanlike too. The old man chuckled.

“Ho – ho! Not bad that, for a girl who’s been raised on a farm,” he said. “Don’t they ever set traps down at Windhoek then, or has your father got too many sheep and calves? I can tell you this beast has been taking toll of mine finely.”

“Well, why don’t you hunt him then, in fair and sportsmanlike fashion,” retorted the girl, “instead of setting an abominably cruel thing like that?”

“Hunt him? Ho – ho! Look there.”

He pointed to the upper end of the hollow, which was shut in by a wall of terraced rock and cliff. But many a dark hole and crack on the face of this showed that the towering rampart was honeycombed by caves and labyrinthine galleries.

“How are you going to get him out of these?” went on old Hesketh. “Why, all the dogs in the world wouldn’t get him out. He’d only have to skip from one hole to another. Eh, Greenoak?” The latter nodded.

“Well, it’s abominably cruel all the same,” repeated Hazel as she turned away. “Aren’t I right, Mr Selmes?”

“A trap that doesn’t kill outright always is cruel,” answered the diplomatic Dick, whose last wish in the world was to disagree with her. “I know I’ve often thought it hard luck on the rabbits at home when they got into one – poor little beggars.”

“Do you know,” she went on, jumping from one subject to another, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have had the opportunity of meeting Mr Greenoak. What a splendid man he is! Isn’t he?”

“Rather. He’s a thundering good old chap.”

Hazel lifted an eyebrow.

“Old! But you surely don’t call him old. Why, he’s just in his prime. Oh, I see, you mean it as a term of comradeship,” she added.

“Er – yes. That was it,” agreed Dick, upon whose mind a very unwelcome qualm was beginning to force itself.

“So strong and cool and clearheaded,” she went on, “and such nerve. Why, he’s everything a man should be. Don’t you agree with me?”

“Most decidedly.”

“Ah, I like to hear a man speak well of another.”

“Why? Isn’t it usual?” said Dick.

“No. At least not within my experience. Almost invariably if I boom one man to another that other will either agree half-heartedly, or find something disparaging to say.”

“Well, even if I felt that way inclined, I should be an absolutely unspeakable cur were I to say anything of the sort about Greenoak, considering that this is the third time he has saved my life,” answered Dick.

“Is it? Oh, do tell me about the others,” cried Hazel, eagerly.

“I can’t tell you about the other because it comes into the mystery of this place, as to which, as you know, we are sworn to secrecy. But I told you the first. It was the night I shot the big buffalo.”

Looking down into the bright, sparkling eager face, Dick Selmes was conscious of that unwelcome misgiving taking even more definite hold of his mind. The eagerness with which she hung upon his words was not because they were his words. Greenoak of all people! Why, he must be old enough to be her father, concluded Dick, in his inexperience rather consoling himself with the thought.

“Yes, you told me that,” rejoined Hazel. “But you are only one of many. Harley Greenoak has the reputation of having saved countless lives and got no end of people out of difficulties of one kind or another, yet he never talks about it, they say. I can’t tell you how proud I am to have made his acquaintance.”

“Shall I tell him so, for here he comes?” said Dick, mischievously. “Now, or when you’re not there?”

“If you do I’ll never speak to you again. And yet I don’t know that I’d greatly care if you did.”

They had been waiting as directed, where the horses had been left, and now the other two were coming up.

“You’ve made a quick job of that, Greenoak,” said Dick.

“Yes. But I only took charge of the more difficult part, Kleinbooi’ll do the rest. It’s a good skin, Dick, and ought to look well in your hall, or wherever you stick up such things.”

Dick stared.

“But it’s yours,” he cried. “Why, it was your shot – and a jolly fine shot too. Don’t know where I’d have been but for it.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ve nowhere to keep trophies and you have. You’ll be able to hang it under the buffalo head.” And the speaker swung himself into the saddle, and resumed his conversation with old Hesketh.

“There!” exclaimed Hazel. “Isn’t that like him? And you hardly said thank you.”

“Greenoak doesn’t like much thanking. It seems to hurt him; sets him on the shrink, don’t you know.”

“I can quite believe that,” rejoined Hazel. “Now – you can help me to mount.”

The while, the subject under discussion was some way ahead, with Hesketh. They were in fact passing the scene of that other tragedy.

“Not much trace of that affair,” Hesketh was saying as he glanced keenly around. “Tell you what, though, I wonder yon tiger didn’t put an end to the ‘mystery’ long ago, and save us the trouble. Ho-ho!”

“I don’t,” rejoined Greenoak, quietly. “It’d have to be a very smart tiger indeed to get the blind side of a veteran Bushman. The ‘mystery’ was a darn sight more likely to scoff the tiger than the tiger was to scoff the ‘mystery.’”

Chapter Nine.

A Way Out

Postal delivery at Haakdoornfontein was, as an institution, non-existent; and when old Hesketh desired communication with or from the outside world he obtained it by dispatching a boy to the nearest field-cornet’s, some sixteen or seventeen miles away. This, for obvious reasons, he did not do very often.