The Gold Kloof

"Yes, Guy," added his uncle, "you'll find this clearness of the atmosphere rather troublesome at first, when you begin rifle-shooting. The game on the plains are much farther off than newcomers can believe; and the consequence is that, until they get used to our conditions of light and atmosphere, sportsmen fresh to the country invariably underestimate their distances, and fire far short of the buck, or whatever it may be they are aiming at. By the way, have you ever fired a rifle?"

"Yes," replied the boy quietly, "I have had some practice with the Martini-Henry at butts, and did pretty well for a beginner; and, as you know, I've used a shot-gun ever since I was twelve years old. I began with small birds and rabbits; two years ago I shot partridge with father-he was home that autumn; and last year I was grouse-shooting with our cousins, the Forsters, in Northumberland.

"By the way, uncle," he went on, "I've brought out a sporting Martini-Henry rifle, as you told me. That and the ammunition are packed up in the long case with my saddlery and the rest of my outfit. Here's my shot-gun," he continued, taking down a gun-case from the rack above, undoing it, and extracting from it a handsome double-barrel. "It's a beauty, isn't it? Father gave it me two years ago on my birthday. It's a 'Cogswell and Harrison,' and a first-rate shooter."

Mr. Blakeney was a keen sportsman, and naturally took an interest in every kind of firearm. He took the gun, which Guy had meanwhile put together, examined it carefully, handled it, balanced it, and standing up in the first-class carriage, which they had to themselves, put it up to his shoulder two or three times.

"Yes, it's a very pretty gun, well built and finished, Guy," he remarked. "You'll have plenty of opportunity of using it at Bamborough. We have lots of feathered game: partridges, pheasants (both of them a kind of francolin), koorhaan-that is, bustards-of various kinds, and numbers of wild guinea-fowl. Then there are plover, "dikkop," and so forth; sand-grouse, wild fowl, when the rains fall and the pans and vleis are full, and various other odds and ends."

"My word, uncle," said Guy eagerly, "this is splendid news. I'm especially fond of bird-shooting, and I had no idea you had all this variety."

Meantime, Mr. Blakeney had in his turn been looking for a gun-case, which he extracted, after no little trouble, from under the seat. He took out his keys, opened the case, and quickly put together a light small-bore sporting rifle.

"Here's a little surprise I had in store for you, Guy," he said. "We have a deal of time to put in on this journey, and I may as well make the best of it. This is one of the newest small-bore magazine rifles, a sporting Mannlicher, which an old friend of mine, who has tested it, tells me is the best weapon he knows for all kinds of buck up to a hartebeest or koodoo, or even an eland. I sent down to George Rawbone of Cape Town to get it out from England for me. Tom and I each have a Lee-Metford .303 sporting rifle. This, I believe, is even better. It's from Holland and Holland in Bond Street, and it ought to be a good one. There you are, my boy," he added, putting it into his nephew's hands. "I hope you'll like it, and will shoot many a head of game with it. I've got plenty of ammunition for you."

Guy's face had lit up with pleasure as his uncle handed him the weapon.

"It's awfully good of you, uncle," he said; "I can't thank you enough. It's a lovely rifle," he continued, as he handled the weapon and tried the mechanism. "If I can't shoot with that, I deserve to be shot myself. I've heard one of our fellows talk of the Mannlicher. His father shoots red deer with it in Scotland, and he says it's a splendid rifle. I'm afraid my Martini-Henry, with its black powder, will have its nose rather put out of joint by this beauty."

"No, I don't think so," replied his uncle. "You will find the Martini still a very useful rifle, although, compared with the new smokeless powder weapons, it produces a lot of smoke, makes a big noise, and has a nasty kick. Some day, when you go into the hunting veldt, you will find it a very good second rifle in reserve; and it's always well to have a spare arm in case anything goes wrong with your first choice and favourite. The Martini bullet delivers a heavy, smashing blow; and I'm not sure whether for lion, leopard, and elephant, and giraffe and the heavier game, I should not still prefer it."

They presently crossed the Orange River, and passed into Griqualand West. Kimberley was reached and left behind; in no great while they passed Fourteen Streams, and entered the rolling grass-veldt country of British Bechuanaland. Vryburg, the little capital of this colony, was presently left behind; and, a hundred miles farther north, they alighted, after their long journey, at Mafeking. Here they stayed the night at Dixon's Hotel.

Mafeking still showed some faint remnants of the excitement which had overtaken it when, some ten months earlier, Dr. Jameson and his raiders had marched from that neighbourhood on their madcap and ill-starred attempt upon the Transvaal. That evening, after dinner, Guy heard occasional references to that period, which interested him not a little. He saw, too, for the first time, some Transvaal Boers, who were in the town selling stock and buying various things that they required. Guy watched these men with a curious and a critical eye. So these were the people with whom England for a hundred years had had so much trouble and so many difficulties. As he watched the big burly fellows-slack and loose-limbed and clumsy they seemed to him, with their rough corduroy clothes, loose trousers, short jackets, slouch hats, great beards, and generally unkempt appearance-it was hard to realize that these were the men who had defeated British troops at Majuba Hill, Laing's Nek, and other places.

He listened to their thick guttural language with astonished interest.

"What a strange lingo," he said to his uncle quietly, after the latter had been discussing cattle and crops with some of the Transvaalers.

"Yes," replied Mr. Blakeney, "it's a queer patois till you get accustomed to it. But you'll have to pick it up, uncouth as it sounds. One can hardly get on in this country without it. All the natives who work for Europeans speak it; and what with transport-riders and Dutch farmers all over the place-most of whom can hardly speak a word of English-one finds it absolutely necessary to acquire Boer Dutch."

"All right, uncle," said Guy, with his usual keenness, "I'll begin as soon as you like."

"Very well," rejoined Mr. Blakeney; "Tom and I will be your tutors. You will not be long before you pick up a fair colloquial knowledge of the language. After all, many of the words are practically identical with much of our Lowland Scotch. Kist, the word for chest, for example, is identical with the Scottish word. Lang stands for long in both countries. Kloof, a ravine, is the same as the Lowland cleugh. Pat means path or road, and so on. Their word spoor, which means tracks or footprints, is identical with an old-fashioned provincial word still in use in England. Otter hunters, for example, often call it the spur of an otter, when they see the prints of these animals in the smooth mud or sand of a riverside."

Mr. Blakeney had had his Cape cart and four horses sent in to meet them, and next morning at dawn they started on the forty-mile drive south-westward which was to land them at Bamborough Farm. Taking with them their gunnery and some ammunition, as well as Mr. Blakeney's and Guy's portmanteaus, they left behind the rest of Guy's kit and impedimenta, which were to be sent on, with some goods and farm implements, by ox-wagon. Having driven for some two and a half hours, they outspanned for breakfast. Peetsi, Mr. Blakeney's Bechuana groom, quickly collected some thorn wood and made a fire; they cooked a kettle of coffee, fried some tinned sausages in a tiny saucepan, got out bread, butter, and a tin of marmalade, and made an excellent meal. Never, thought Guy, had he enjoyed a breakfast so much. Meanwhile the horses, on being unharnessed, had indulged in the invariable roll which all Cape nags make a point of on being off-saddled or outspanned, and were knee-haltered. This operation was closely observed by Guy, at his uncle's suggestion. It is an extremely useful one, which any newcomer to the South African veldt ought to make himself master of. Knee-haltered, the horse can graze comfortably, yet cannot wander far away. Guy watched Peetsi's operations, and then, after one or two vain attempts, secured two of the horses himself.

"Well done, Guy!" said his uncle approvingly. "Nothing like picking up these things as soon as possible. You'll do, I can see. Once a man learns how to knee-halter a nag, he never forgets it. It's like running or skating, or riding or dancing-once mastered, never forgotten."

The horses were given a feed of forage, which consists of the ears and stalks of oats cut up and eaten together-"oat-hay" some people call it-and then grazed for half an hour in the long grass veldt. The sun was becoming hot, and the travellers now doffed their coats and went, as most people do up-country, in their shirt sleeves.

Presently they inspanned again and drove off. Now they were approaching a belt of charming forest country, low, spreading, umbrella-shaped giraffe-acacia timber, planted by nature not too thickly together. Everywhere among these trees grew the tall, pale, yellow veldt grass, and pleasant vistas and open glades here and there greeted the eye. Amid these trees fluttered occasionally queer, bizarre-looking hornbills, and brilliant rollers, miscalled "blue-jays" by the colonists, blazing in lovely plumage of many hues-blues, lilacs, purples, and greens. For an hour they drove through this pleasant country, and then emerged upon the dry, rolling grass plains once more. Half an hour later they approached a small shallow valley, through which ran the dry bed of a periodical stream. Along the banks of this dry stream grew a fringe of thorn bush, the common doom boom, or thorny acacia. Suddenly Mr. Blakeney pulled up his team.

"Sh!" he said in a low tone, handing the reins to Guy, and reaching out the Mannlicher, which now stood against the seat behind him. "Follow the line of bush yonder," he continued, pointing with his right hand. "Do you see anything?"

"Yes," replied Guy; "I see a big bird. What is it?"

"That's a paauw, my boy," answered his uncle; "our biggest bustard. You must have a try for him."

Taking some cartridges from a bandolier that hung at the side of the cart, Mr. Blakeney filled the magazine clip and pushed it into its place. Then he worked a cartridge into the breech.

"Now, Guy," he went on, "jump down there, creep up behind that bush, and try for a shot. You know the mechanism. If you miss with the first, have a blaze with your second cartridge. You won't get nearer than a hundred yards. Take your time, and don't hurry your shot."

Guy slipped down quietly, and, stooping low, crept towards the bush his uncle had pointed out. The paauw still fed quietly along the spruit: it was some two hundred and fifty yards from the cart, and the cunning creature, judging the distance to a nicety, esteemed itself quite secure. But, meanwhile, the eager lad with the Mannlicher was creeping up, the wind was right, and it seemed that he might attain his vantage-ground without the alert bird becoming aware of him. Now he is within forty yards of the bush, now thirty, now ten. He is there. Cautiously peering through the leafy screen, and dropping on to his right knee, he takes steady aim and fires.

The report of the Mannlicher was a light one, and its smoke very trifling. The big bird staggered to the shot, half lifted its wings, ran fifteen paces, and then dropped to the veldt dead. A shout of triumph rang out from Mr. Blakeney's lips.

"Bravo! bravo! my boy," he cried in stentorian tones. "You've done the trick beautifully."

Long before the words were out of his uncle's mouth, Guy, scarcely able to contain his exultation at this his first success, threw his hat into the air, leaped out of the bush, and ran like a deer up to the dead bustard. He picked it up-it seemed enormously heavy-and held it up in triumph. Then turning he walked swiftly back towards the cart. His uncle met him at the bush, clapped him on the back, and said heartily, -

"Well hit, Guy! A first-rate shot. I can see you don't want much coaching in the art of rifle-shooting. It isn't every day we get a paauw."

He took the great bird from the lad, and, holding it out, tested its weight. "He's a beauty," he went on; "fat, and in high condition. Can't weigh less than thirty pounds. Handsome bird, isn't he? Look at his crest. That's the biggest and finest bustard in the world-kori the Bechuanas call him.

"Now let us pace the distance," he continued.

They paced it from the bush to the spot where the bird had been hit. Just one hundred and five yards it was, at a rough computation.

"A good shot, Guy," repeated his uncle. "And you kept your head and didn't hurry it. Well, we shall dine excellently. Your aunt and cousins will be as pleased as Punch to see that paauw; it's by far the best eating of any game-bird in Africa."

They reached the cart again. Peetsi, with beaming face, exclaimed in smooth Bechuana at the kori, and fastened the great bird up at the back of the cart, under the shade of the hood. Then they resumed their journey. Half an hour farther on, Mr. Blakeney got down from the cart, shot-gun in hand this time. He had noticed a koorhaan, one of the lesser bustards, go down at a certain spot in the veldt on the left-hand side of the road. In approaching the place where the bird lay concealed, he executed a circling movement. Smaller and smaller became the circle, and then, suddenly, without a cry of warning, a biggish bird flushed from the long grass and flew off. In an instant the sportsman's gun was at his shoulder. Then came the crisp report of a Schultz cartridge, and the bird instantly fell to the shot. Mr. Blakeney walked forward to pick it up. As he did so a second bird, the hen, rose almost from under his feet. Giving her twenty-five yards law, again the gunner pulled the trigger, and the second game-bird hit the earth. It was a pretty scene-the wide yellow plain; the gunner standing knee deep in grass; the stricken bird, outlined clear against the hot sky. Giving the reins to Peetsi once more, Guy sprang out of the cart and ran to meet his uncle.

"Well, that was a pretty bit of shooting, uncle!" he cried joyfully. "I'm glad I saw it. I shall know what to do when I see a koorhaan go down and squat as that one did."

"That's a blue-necked koorhaan," answered his uncle; "one of our most beautiful bustards. Look at its lovely colouring and plumage-the bright rufous back, marked with black; the bluish tinge on the neck; and the tints, rufous, ash-colour, white and black, of the head and neck. And how splendidly the black wing feathers and the white underparts contrast with the rest of the plumage."

Guy took the two birds, which were each about the size of a blackcock, and walked with his uncle back to the cart. They drove on now, with a couple more outspans to rest the horses, until at length, turning a corner of some bush, Mr. Blakeney suddenly pointed with his whip and said, "There's Bamborough!"

Guy looked, and saw at the top of a gentle slope, which rose above a well-bushed river valley, a long, low, square-built house, having a raised veranda, or stoep as it is called in South Africa, running all round it. In a mile they had crossed the dry river-bed, ascended the slope, and driven up to the place. It was just upon two o'clock. Mrs. Blakeney, a pleasant, comely-looking matron, came out of the house, and greeted her nephew so soon as he descended. She had not seen him since he was a small child.

"Of course, I should not have known you, Guy," she said. "What a giant you have grown! I shall be very proud of my good-looking nephew."

Then the cousins had to be introduced-Tom, the eldest boy, a fine-looking lad of eighteen, like his father, lean, dark, and wiry; two pretty, fresh-looking girls of fifteen and thirteen, Ella and Marjory; and Arthur, the youngest of the group, a sharp-looking boy of eleven. The greetings over, Mrs. Blakeney took them at once into dinner, which she had kept back, trusting to her husband's invariable speed and punctuality, even on a forty-mile drive.

In the afternoon they sauntered round the place, and Guy was shown everything there was to be seen. Bamborough was a typical South African homestead of the better sort. It consisted of a large single-story building, thatched by natives with grass, the exterior rough-cast and white-washed. There were ten good-sized rooms, which served for all the needs of the family and left a couple of spare beds for those not infrequent occasions when visitors or wayfarers turned up. A governess, who resided with the family, looked after the education of the girls and Arthur. Tom, who had just finished his schooling at Grahamstown, in Cape Colony, was now home for good. His father, who farmed twelve thousand morgen of land, or rather more than twenty-four thousand acres, needed assistance, and was glad to have his son about with him. Tom knew a good deal of the mysteries of stock-farming already, and was, his father declared, almost as good a judge of an ox as he was himself. A first-rate rider, a good shot, and a keen sportsman, Tom was just the kind of cousin Guy had hoped for. The two, who had many points in common, quickly understood one another, and struck up a strong friendship.

Guy was shown everything-the trellised vine, leading from the front door to the gate; the fruit orchard at the side of the house, in which grew peaches, apricots, nectarines, quinces, apples, and pears; the orange trees down by the "lands," where the arable crops, oats and mealies, were grown; the stables and compounds; the cattle and goat kraals; and the ostrich camp, a vast enclosure, where stalked a number of these great birds. He was shown the deep-bore well and windmill pump, which supplied the station with water; the big dam, which looked like a lake, with its fringe of willow and blue gums; and many other things pertaining to the headquarters of a large South African cattle ranch. Altogether, what with the morning drive, the meeting with his new cousins, and the long afternoon of sightseeing, Guy was not sorry for bed at ten o'clock. His head had not been two minutes on the snow-white pillow, scented like the rest of the spotless bed linen with some fragrant veldt herb, before he was sound asleep.

Chapter III.

UP-COUNTRY LIFE

For some weeks Mr. Blakeney allowed Guy to have what may be called a good time. He was anxious that the lad should not be thrust too soon into hard collar-work. There is a good deal of steady routine labour, even upon an up-country farm in South Africa, if the farmer is up-to-date and business-like, and means to take his occupation seriously. There are books to be kept; long and hard days to be spent in the saddle; heavy fencing operations, which need care, thought, and application; journeys to various market centres with troops of fat stock; and a host of other details, not all of which are exactly what may be regarded as pure pleasure or light work. Too many young Englishmen, it is to be feared, look upon stock-farming and cattle-ranching as pleasant out-of-door occupations, entailing merely an ornamental kind of existence. They picture to themselves, before going out to South Africa, a shirt-sleeve and broad-brimmed hat kind of life, in which the stock-farmer has merely to have a good time, while his flocks and herds increase about him. This sort of settler quickly becomes disillusioned, and, having wasted a thousand or two of good money-probably his father's-returns sadly to urban life again, vowing that no one can make money by stock-farming in South Africa.

But there are plenty of hard-working and successful pastoral farmers in many parts of South Africa who can testify to the excellent result of application and attention to details, united with care, foresight, energy, and experience.

For a long month Mr. Blakeney or his son Tom, sometimes both of them, rode far and wide with Guy Hardcastle over the twenty-four thousand odd acres comprised in Bamborough Farm. They explored boundaries, pointed out to Guy the various beacons marking off their limits, inspected cattle, and assisted at the sinking of a well in a distant part of the estate. This well, and the erection of a windmill pump, were needed for the supply of water to the cattle in what had been so waterless a portion of the ranch that it had been hitherto practically unavailable, excellent as was the grass veldt. A good-sized basin was formed in a piece of limestone formation, where once had existed an ancient native well, now long since dry; and here, when the operations were completed, the cattle were able to slake their thirst in a cool, crystal-clear pool, which at once sent up the value of the six thousand acres on this part of the run by two hundred per cent.

They had various bird-shooting excursions, riding out with a couple of pointers, and, so soon as the dogs stood to game, dismounting from their ponies and walking into their shots. In this way they made some pretty bags of Coqui and red-wing francolin, koorhaan, and guinea-fowl. One or two adventures befell Guy at this period. One day they had sallied out to hunt a troop of hartebeest, which ran on a distant part of the farm. After finding the troop in some prettily-timbered country, well covered with giraffe-acacia, the three had become separated, Guy galloping mile after mile in pursuit of a good bull which he had wounded. The hartebeest, turning out of the troop and quitting the wooded glades in which the herd had been discovered, took away over the open plains. Guy was well mounted, and for a long seven miles pushed after the big red-brown antelope, which swept away in front of him with a free, machine-like action that, despite its wound-a bullet through the middle of the body-showed no symptom of tiring. At length the hartebeest climbed the ridge of a wave in the grass plain, and disappeared. Guy's pony, good and willing as he was, was now tiring visibly. The lad doubted whether he could gallop much farther-the pace had been too great-and the game looked like getting clean away. It was too annoying. They reached the top of the ridge, and looked over. Nothing living was to be seen; the plain was untenanted. Apparently the antelope had vanished into thin air. But Guy's keen eye noted, half a mile or so to the right, a widish patch of vaal bush. Towards this he now rode. He approached within thirty yards, and dismounted. Just as he did so, the wounded antelope rose slowly to its feet from within the shelter of the bush, and essayed to canter off. Too late! The gallant beast had made its last effort and taken its final gallop. Guy's rifle went up, and as the antelope slowly moved away, another bullet from the Mannlicher pierced its heart. It tumbled suddenly to the veldt, and after a brief kick or two lay dead.

Guy now set to work to skin his prize and take off the head. It was a fine bull, carrying excellent horns, and his pride and satisfaction at having thus secured his first big game trophy were very great. By the time he had completed his operations, and slung the skin and a quantity of venison behind the saddle, the hot afternoon was wearing away. Carrying the hartebeest's head in front of him, resting on the pommel of the saddle, Guy now rode back for the woodland. It was a long eight miles, and his nag was by no means fresh after his tremendous exertions. They reached the acacia groves at last. By this time there remained an hour to sunset. Through these endless groves and glades, all much resembling one another, the young Englishman now attempted to thread his way, with the result that, by the time the sun sank, he found himself completely lost. Just at this moment there came from far to the eastward the faint report of a gun, then another. Guy rode that way, but in half an hour the light had clean vanished, and it became a matter of difficulty to manoeuvre a path through the gloom of evening amid this trackless forest. Night fell; there was no moon; and although the stars glittered brilliantly above, it became apparent to Guy that he was benighted. He heard no more shots.

After wandering on, leading his now dog-tired pony, the lad came to the conclusion that he had better camp for the night. He had, luckily, in the hunting pouch at his belt, a box of matches and a compass, two things which his uncle had warned him always to carry on expeditions of this sort. He knew that there was no water within many miles of where he stood, and that it was useless to think of attempting to find any. He had, unluckily, finished the last remnant of lime juice and water that remained in his water-bottle; bitterly did he now regret the fact. He was terribly thirsty after hunting all day under a burning sun. He felt that at this moment he would gladly have given half a crown, nay, half a sovereign, for a quart of clear water. It was useless to think about it, however, and, philosophically enough, Guy set to work to prepare for the night. First he cut a quantity of grass and placed it before his pony, which by this time he had off-saddled and tied to a bush. On the lee side of this bush he himself meant to sleep, and for this purpose cut more grass and made a rough bed. Then clearing a space-for he had no wish to start a veldt fire-he cut and gathered sticks and odd timber. He had camped by a dead acacia tree, destroyed by white ants, and soon had before him a cheerful blaze. Now cutting some collops of venison, he cooked them in the hot embers, and, with a biscuit that remained over from his lunch, made out a respectable meal. It was hard work eating without water, and with a thirst such as he now possessed; but he managed to swallow some food, and felt a trifle better. The air grew chill, and he now unfastened his coat from his saddle and put it on; then, piling up more wood on the fire, and making a pillow of the inner part of his saddle, he fell asleep. He knew that here, in this waterless and semi-desert part of the veldt, few wild beasts-leopards, cheetahs, or hyænas-would be wandering about; and besides, he was too tired to trouble much if any there were.