Part 11 (2/2)

Ferrier is still here; says he's in loco parentis, and won't leave me till you return to your duties. I wonder if you tell the widow's children that you're in loco parentis?

The lions have been quiet lately, since Said Mohammed saved my life; but as the mistris had next to nothing to do and were getting too fat, I have set them to build a stronger boma, of stout poles fastened together with transverse logs. That ought to keep the beasts out; at any rate it will give the place more the look of a respectable stockyard.

I wish you'd s.h.i.+p a few merinos for cross-breeding. Our half-breeds aren't much good for wool. The May lambs were born with long coa.r.s.e hair, though they grew a poor sort of wool at three months. Wasama doesn't like the woolled sheep; he says they're not like the sheep of his country, and persists in believing that the first woolled beasts were the offspring of lions and hyenas. What ignorance! as old Martha used to say.

Out shooting the other day we saw a herd of zebras, and Ferrier has got a mad idea of catching some of the foals and taming them. We may try it if we come across them again, so don't be surprised if you see us riding to meet you on striped chargers. You, I expect, will be wearing striped trousers, light gloves, and a new silk topper.

The failed B.A. is a perpetual joy. His latest. Ferrier found a hair in his soup the other night. ”Accept humble apologies, sir,” says Said Mohammed, as he took it away. ”In such circs. I can best cheer you up by reminding you of a verse of the little but divine Alexander Pope: 'And beauty draws us with a single hair.'” That may appeal to you, dad.

I hope your leg is all right, and you're enjoying yourself. _I've_ got to work for my living.

One day the younger Masai, who had taken a flock of sheep out to graze at the extreme west of the estate, came rus.h.i.+ng in breathless and reported with intense excitement that the sheep had been driven off by some men who had pounced suddenly out of the bush. One was a Swahili, the rest negroes. They had carried him along with them for some distance and then let him go.

”How many were they?” asked John.

”Eight,” replied the boy. ”One had a gun.”

”Which way did they go?”

The boy pointed to the west.

”We can tackle eight, Charley. Coja, saddle up the two best donkeys and bring us our rifles. This is something new, Charley. I wonder if it's our friend Juma again?”

”Rum thing, their letting the boy go, don't you think?” said Ferrier.

”They must know we'll be after them, especially if the Swahili is Juma; it's not the first time you've chased him.”

”He reckons on getting away, or on our not finding the trail, I suppose.

We'll take Bill with us.”

But when, riding their donkeys hard, they came to the little hut in the wood, they found that the Wanderobbo was not there.

”He's gone for honey, I suppose,” said John. ”Never mind; we oughtn't to find it difficult to track sheep.”

They set off at full speed, and easily picked up the trail at the place where the marauders had rushed from their hiding-place in the bush. They followed it without difficulty so long as it led across gra.s.s country, but lost it for a time soon after they entered the bush, because there were evident signs that a herd of animals larger that sheep had recently forced a way. However, they recovered it again after ten minutes'

search, and found from that point that it led in almost a straight line--so straight that John was puzzled.

”I can't make out why they haven't tried to blind their trail and lead us astray,” he said. ”They must be very c.o.c.ksure, or else they're trying to ambuscade us. We'd better keep a sharp look-out.”

They rode more slowly now, yet at a brisk pace, narrowly examining every specially thick bush as they approached it, and avoiding any clump of woodland that might give cover to the marauders.

Suddenly, when they were a good five miles, as John estimated, from the farm, on ascending a gradual slope they saw from its crest the flock of sheep placidly grazing on a little patch of gra.s.s about half-a-mile below. There was no sign of the raiders, and the surrounding bush being very thin, they must have been visible had they remained in the immediate vicinity. Cantering down towards the sheep, which scattered as they approached, the riders dismounted, rounded them up, and proceeded to count them.

”They're the Welsh crosses,” said John. ”Forty-nine--one missing. I can't make this out at all. Look, here's the trail of the men, let's follow it up. We'll tether the donkeys. The sheep won't leave this gra.s.s.”

The trail led them straight towards a wood a mile further on. At the edge of this they saw clear signs of a sheep having been slaughtered and cut up. Entering the wood cautiously, they followed the trail for some distance, finding that it wound towards the north. Both were itching to punish the raiders, but the trail became more and more difficult to distinguish as the wood grew denser, and at length, hot and tired, and as much mystified as angry, they turned back and came out once more into the open.

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