LITMIR.BIZ

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which ran into the bush. I followed without much hope into the valley, to find the spoor obliterated by the tracks of a troop of cattle which had been on the move since sunrise. After questioning the native herd without success, I turned back towards Pike’s house, reaching it just as he came out from his breakfast. He took a long glance at me and my horse.

      “Soh,” he said, “been spooring a stock thief, eh? You’ve got to get up early to catch that sort – earlier than bedtime. I seed you go over the brow of that rand yonder with a dog nosing on in front, and I said to myself, ‘Abe Pike, there’s the young baas with the hope springing up in him that he’s got the glory of catching a cattle thief.’ The young has got all the hope and the old all the experience, and I’d swaap a whole lot of experience for a glimmer of hope.”

      All this time he had been attending to the horse, rubbing its back and legs with a wisp of straw.

      “Who said I had been after a cattle thief?

      “What are words, sonny; words is nothing – nothing but a slower way of saying a thing you have already made plain enough by your actions. Says I, ‘Abe Pike, the young baas has lost a beast, maybe a cow and calf, and bymby he’ll be looking as black as thunder and as hungry as a mule.’”

      “Uncle Abe, you know something about this robbery. It is true I have lost a cow and calf. Have you seen them?”

      “What! me? Where is they? You know well if Abe Pike had seen them they’d a been right here waiting for you. No, lad; but I saw you follering straight on the spoor, and if there’d been several beasts some on ’em would have broke from the track, making the spooring bend and twist. So I reckoned there were only one beast, maybe a cow and calf. There’s a dough cookie under the coals and some good honey, with a couple of fresh aigs and a roast mealie, not to say a cup of as good coffee as you can get. Help yourself, lad; help yourself.”

      I sat down to this simple fare – after raking the “cookie” from the fire-place, whence it came baking hot with wood cinders embedded in its steaming crust; while Abe leant against the door-post, pulling reflectively at his pipe.

      “What has become of Bolo?” I asked.

      “He quitted last night. No, he ain’t gone off with your cow. He was skeered.”

      I nodded an inquiry, being engaged with the mealie cob, the eating of which occupies the mouth too fully for speech.

      “Old Bolo were skeered. Try some of that honey – it’s real good. None of your euphorbia juice in it to burn your mouth out, but just ripe sweetness from the hill flowers and sugar bushes.”

      The old man held his pipe away, and his lips were drawn in as I placed a piece of gleaming yellow comb on my plate.

      “Yes,” he chuckled, “old Bolo were skeered, and he lit out for home. You see, him and me were sitting away yonder, under the tree in the shade, talking about things, when up comes a honey-bird. ‘Chet-chet-chet-chee!’ he said, sitting up there in the branches, with his head on one side and then the other as he fussed about with his news. ‘Chet-chet-chet-chee!’ he said – which is his way of saying as how he’d found a honey-tree and wanted someone to go shares with him.

      “‘Shall we foller him!’ says I.

      “Bolo he grunted. For a heathen he’s spry, but it was his lazy time, and for another thing he was in the middle of a long-winded story, which he was bound to finish, being a born talker, and very strong ag’inst being interrupted.

      “‘Chet-chet-chet-chee!’ said the honey-bird, jumping from one branch to another all in a quiver of impatience.

      “‘Come on,’ says I, ‘let’s see what sort of a nest he’s got.’

      “‘That bird is a mischief bird,’ said Bolo; ‘he will lead us to a snake or a tiger. Eweh! to the black tiger.’

      “‘How?’ says I.

      “‘Why,’ says he, ‘if he were a good bird he would sit away over there on that thorn bush and wait till we have finished our talk. This bird is too anxious.’

      “Just then that bird flew away, off to the thorn tree, and there he sat dumb.

      “‘By Jimminy,’ says I, ‘that’s funny.’

      “Bolo he took a pinch of snuff, and he drove on with his story, with his ‘congella wetu,’ and his ‘kè-kè-lo-ko-kè,’ jes’ ’s if nothing had happened, while I sat with my eyes fixed on that there bird.

      “Well, the longest river reaches the sea some time, and at last Bolo finished that yarn, and what it was about I couldn’t tell you, sonny. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘let us investigate this matter,’ and hang me ef at that precise moment of the ending of that yarn, the bird didn’t come back, all agog with his news.

      “Bolo he shook his head. ‘That bird is no bird,’ he says, ‘it’s a familiar.’

      “‘Whose familiar?’ says I.

      “‘It belongs to that dog of a Fingo,’ naming a rival medicine man, ‘or else ’tis a slave of the black tiger sent to lead us into a trap.’

      “‘Well,’ says I, ‘honey is sweet, though it gives a man a bad pense, as the Royal motter says, and I’m for follering him.’ So up I got, and that bird he jes’ flew off, lighting here an’ lighting there, so as I could keep up, and after a mile he sot still as death on a thorn bush.

      “‘Is this the place?’ says I.

      “The honey-bird kep’ quiet, but he jes’ turn his eye on me all of a sparkle.

      “Well, I jes’ sniffed aroun’ and squinted aroun’, and in a brace of shakes I spotted the honey nest in a hollow ant-hill. Well, I scooted back to the house for a bucket, and after smokin’ the bees, got out fifty pound weight of the finest sealed honey, not forgetting to set a piece of comb with young bees in it for the bird.

      “Well, Bolo was pretty sick when he saw me come in with that bucket full, and he was standing there saying he knew all along that bird was a good bird, but he didn’t want to find the honey seeing as it was on my farm, and he’d be sure to find it first, whereby he could claim half, which was against hospitality. Right there, sonny, that there bird come and perched on the roof. ‘Chet-chet-chee!’ says he, as excited as if he hadn’t had a meal for a month. I see it was the same bird, for there was a stickiness about his head.

      “‘Oh, aie;’ says Bolo, then he shouted from his chest. ‘My little friend in the grey suit, lead on!’

      “Well, the bird flew off, and Bolo, he went after, whistling and calling it good names. I jest pottered about by the house into the afternoon, looking out every now and ag’in to see if Bolo were coming back, when of a sudden I see him tearing acrost the veld. He shot by me into the house, and hang me if he didn’t bang the door in my face, and at the same time that honey-bird lighted on the roof. You never see sich a sight as that bird. He opened his mouth, spread his wings, rolled about and laughed fit to bust himself. Bymby he flew away with a final screech, and Bolo opened the door, his natrally black face being green, his lips curled back from his teeth, and his eyes rolling. I up with a beaker of water and threw it in his face to cool him off – and he came round.

      “‘Did you find the honey-tree?’ says I.

      “‘Honey-tree!’ says he, and his eyes began to roll ag’in, as though he were trying to look inside his head. ‘There were no honey-tree. It was a bad bird I knew it, I told you, and you would not believe the words of the wise man. I am going – where are my kerries?’

      “‘What happened?’

      “‘This. Listen. I followed the evil thing. It led me across the veld and a thorn caught me by the leg. It was a warning, but I did not heed, I went on across the ridge to the kloof, and into the kloof to a hollow tree. I heard the owl cry, the night-bird calling in the day, giving another warning, but I was deaf. I smelt honey, and there were no bees flying in the hole; but the smell of honey was strong. Into the hole I was about to thrust my arm when I saw on the bark long scratches. I looked up through the plume on my head,

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