Harley Greenoak's Charge. Mitford Bertram
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