Chapter Two.

Uncle Abe’s Big Shoot.

I had ridden out one day to the outpost, where a troop of young cattle were running, when the horse rode into a covey of red-wing partridges, a brace of which I accounted for by a right and left. Picking up the birds, and feeling rather proud of the shot, I continued on to Uncle Pike’s to crow over the matter.

The old man was seated outside the door ‘braiding’ a thong of forslag or whip-lash.

“Hitch the reins over the pole. Ef the shed was ready I’d ask yer to stable the hoss, but there’s a powerful heap o’ work yet to finish it off nice an’ shipshape—me being one o’ those who like to see a job well done. None o’ yer rough and ready sheds for me, with a hole in the roof after the fust rain. A plump brace o’ birds—you got ’em up by the Round Kopje.”

“Yes, Uncle; a right and left from the saddle. Good shooting, eh!”

“Fair to middling, sonny—fair to middling—but with a handful o’ shot an’ a light gun what can yer expect but to hit. Now, ef you’d bagged ’em with one ball outer an ole muzzle-loader, why I’d up an’ admit it was praisable.”

“Why Uncle, where’s the man who would knock over two birds with a ball? It couldn’t be done.”

“Is that so? Well, now yer s’prise me.”

“You’re not going to tell me you have seen that done!”

“Something better. That’s small potatoes.”

He rose up, went indoors, and returned with an ancient single muzzle-loader, the stock bound round with snake skin. “Jes’ yer handle that wepin.”

I handled it, and returned it without a word. It was ill-balanced, and came up awkwardly to the shoulder.

“That wepin saved my life.”

“In the war?”

“In the big drought. You remember the time. The country was that dry, you could hear the grass crackle like tinder when the wind moved, an’ every breath stirred up columns of sand which went cavorting over the veld round and round, their tops bending over to each other an’ the bottoms stirring up everything movable, and the whole length of the funells dotted about with snakes, an’ lizards, an’ bits of wood. Why, I see one o’ em whip up a dead sheep, an’ shed the wool off o’ the carcase as it went twisting round an’ round.”

“And the gun?”

“The gun was on the wall over my bed. Don’t you mind the gun. Well, it was that dry the pumpkins withered up where they lay on the hard ground—an’ one day there was nought in the larder, not so much as a smell. There was no breakfast for ole Abe Pike, nor dinner nor yet tea, an’ the next morning ’twas the same story o’ emptiness. I took down the old gun from the wall an’ cleaned her up. There was one full charge o’ powder in the horn, an’ one bullet in the bag. All that morning I considered whether ’twould be wiser to divide that charge inter three, or to pour the whole lot of it in’t once. When dinner-time came an’ there was no dinner, I solumnly poured the whole bang of it inter the barrel, an’ listened to the music of the black grains as they rattled on their way down to their last dooty. I cut a good thick wad from a buck-hide and rammed it down, ‘Plunk, plenk, plank, plonk, ploonk,’ until the rod jumped clean out o’ the muzzle. Then I polished up that lone bullet, wrapped him round in a piece o’ oil rag, an’ sent him down gently. ‘Squish, squish, squash, squoosh.’ I put the cap on the nipple, an’ sent him home with the pressure o’ the hammer. Then I took a look over the country to ’cide on a plan o’ campaign. What I wanted was a big ram with meat on him ter last for a month, if ’twas made inter biltong. There was one down by the hoek, but it warnt full grown. He was nearest, but there was one I’d seen over yonder off by the river, beyond the kloof, an’ I reckoned ’twas worth while going a couple o’ mile extra to get him.”

“You were sure of him?”

“He was as good as dead when I shouldered the gun an’ stepped off out on that wilderness o’ burnt land. The wind came like a breath from a furnace, an’ the hair on my head split an’ curled up under the heat. Whenever I came across a rock with a breadth of shade I sot there to cool off, panting like a fowl, an’ also to cool off the gun for fear ’twould explode. By reason o’ this resting the dark came down when I reached the ridge above the river, an’ I jest camped where it found me, after digging up some insange root to chew. The fast had been with me for two days, an’ the gnawing pain inside was terrible, so that I kept awake looking up at the stars an’ listening to the plovers.”

“It must have been lonesome!”

“’Twas not the lonesomeness so much as the emptiness that troubled me. Before the morning came, lighting up the valley, I was going down to the river on the last hunt. ’Twas do or die that trip—an’ it seemed to me I could see the gleam o’ my bones away down there through the mist that hung over the sick river. I made straight for the river, knowing there was a comfort an’ fellowship in the water which would draw game there, an’ the big black ram, too, ’fore he marched off inter the thick o’ the kloof for his sleep. By-and-by, as I went down among the rocks an’ trees, I pitched head first—ker smash—in a sudden fit o’ dizziness, but the shock did me good. It rattled up my brain—an’ instead o’ jest plunging ahead I went slow—slow an’ soft as a cat on the trail—pushing aside a branch here, shoving away a dry twig there,