Book: ‘Tween Snow and Fire A Tale of the Last Kafir War Author: Bertram Mitford pdf book download

me here as I stand. Shoot again, Umlilwane–shoot again, if you dare. Hau! Hear my `word.’ You have slain my dog–my white hunting dog, the last of his breed–who can outrun every other hunting dog in the land, even as the wind outstrippeth the crawling ox-wagon, and you have shed my blood, the blood of a chief. You had better first have cut off your right hand, for it is better to lose a hand than one’s mind. This is my `word,’ Umlilwane–bear it in memory, for you have struck a chief–a man of the House of Gcaleka.”

[Umlilwane: “Little Fire”–Kafirs are fond of bestowing nicknames. This one referred to its bearer’s habitually short temper.]

“Damn the House of Gcaleka, anyway,” said Carhayes, with a sneer as the savage, having vented his denunciation, stalked scowlingly away with his compatriots. “Look here, isidenge,” [fool], he continued. “This is my word. Keep clear of me, for the next time you fall foul of me I’ll shoot you dead. And now, Eustace,” turni.

The Episode of the White Dog.

The buck is running for dear life.

The dog is some fifty yards behind the buck. The Kafir is about the

same distance behind the dog, which distance he is striving right manfully

to maintain; not so unsuccessfully, either, considering that he is pitting the

speed of two legs against that of eight.

Down the long grass slope they course—buck, dog, and savage.

The former, a game little antelope of the steinbok species, takes the

ground in a series of long, flying leaps, his white tail whisking like a flag of

defiance. 

The second, a tawny, black-muzzled grey-hound, stretching his

snaky length in the wake of his quarry, utters no sound, as with arrow-like

velocity he holds on his course, his cruel eyes gleaming, his jaws

dripping saliva in pleasurable anticipation of the coming feast. The third,

a fine, well-knit young Kafir, his naked body glistening from head to foot

with red ochre, urges on his hound with an occasional shrill whoop of

encouragement, as he covers the ground at a surprising pace in his free,

bounding stride. He holds a knob-kerrie in his hand, ready for use as

soon as the quarry shall be within hurling distance.

But of this there seems small chance at present. It takes a good dog

indeed to run down an unwounded buck with the open veldt before him,

and good as this one is, it seems probable that he will get left. Down the

long grass slope they course, but the opposite acclivity is the quarry’s

opportunity. The pointed hoofs seem hardly to touch ground in the arrowy

flight of their owner. The distance between the latter and the pursuing

hound increases.

Along a high ridge overlooking this primitive chase grow, at regular

intervals, several circular clumps of bush. One of these conceals a

spectator. The latter is seated on horseback in the very midst of the

scrub, his feet dangling loosely in the stirrups, his hand closed tightly and

rather suggestively round the breech of a double gun—rifle and smooth

bore—which rests across the pommel of his saddle. There is a frown

upon his face, as, himself completely hidden, he watches intently the

progress of the sport. It is evident that he is more interested than

pleased.

For Tom Carhayes is the owner of this Kaffrarian stock run. In that

part of Kaffraria, game is exceedingly scarce, owing to the presence of a

redundant native population. Tom Carhayes is an ardent sportsman and

spares no effort to protect and restore the game upon his farm. Yet here

is a Kafir running down a buck under his very nose. Small wonder that he

feels furious.

“That scoundrel Goníwe!” he mutters between his set teeth. “I’ll put a

bullet through his cur, and lick the nigger himself within an inch of his life!”

The offence is an aggravated one. Not only is the act of poaching a

very capital crime in his eyes, but the perpetrator ought to be at that

moment at least three miles away, herding about eleven hundred of his

master’s sheep. These he has left to take care of themselves while he

indulges in an illicit buck-hunt. Small wonder indeed that his said master,

at no time a good-tempered man, vows to make a condign example of

him.

The buck has nearly gained the crest of the ridge. Once over it his

chances are good. The pursuing hound, running more by sight than by

scent, may easily be foiled, by a sudden turn to right or left, and a double

or two. The dog is a long way behind now, and the spectator has to rise

in his stirrups to command a view of the situation. Fifty yards more and

the quarry will be over the ridge and in comparative safety.

But from just that distance above there suddenly darts forth another

dog—a white one. It has sprung from a patch of bush similar to that

which conceals the spectator. The buck, thoroughly demoralised by the

advent of this new enemy, executes a rapid double, and thus pressed.