But it must have been very
soon after Shadrach clubbed his rifle that the beasts
wavered, were beaten, and fled screaming, and the farmer
found himself leaning on his weapon and a great Zulu,
shining with sweat, talking to him.

"'Never have I had such a fight,' the Zulu was saying, 'and
never may I hope for such another. The baas is a great
chief. I watched him.'

"Something was picking at Shadrach's boots, and he drew
back with a shudder from the form that lay at his feet.

"'Bring a stick from the fire,' he ordered. 'I want to see
this--this baboon.'

"As the man went, he ran a cartridge into the breach of his
rifle, and when the burning stick was brought, he turned
over the body with his foot.

"A yellow face mowed up at him, and pale yellow eyes
sparkled dully.

"'Tck!' clicked the Zulu in surprise. 'It is the bushman,
Naqua. No, baas,' as Shadrach cocked his rifle, 'do not
shoot him. Keep him and chain him to a post. He will like
that less.'

"'I shoot,' answered Shadrach, and shattered the evil grin
that gleamed in the face on the ground with a quick shot.

"And, as I told you, my stepsister's first husband,
Shadrach van Guelder, was afraid to be alone in the dark
after that night," concluded the Vrouw Grobelaar. "It is
ill shooting baboons, Frikkie."

"I'm not afraid," retorted Frikkie, and the baboon in the
yard rattled his chain and cursed shrilly.

MORDER DRIFT

The business was something before my time, but I can
remember several versions of it, which were commonly
current when I first came into the Dopfontein district. It
was not much of a tale as a general thing, except that, if
you happened to have a strain of hot blood in you, it
discovered a quality of very picturesque pathos. However,
as you shall see, only the tail end of the story was
generally known, and it was the Vrouw Grobelaar, the
transmitter of chronicles, who divulged it to Katje and
myself one evening in its proper proportions.

As I first heard it the tale was about thus. The drift
across the Dolf Spruit, below the Zwaartkop, was a ragged
gash in the earth, hidden from all approaches by dense
bushes of wacht een beetje thorn. The spruit was here
throttled between banks of worn stone, and the water roared
over the drift at a depth that made it impassible to foot-
farers. Its name Morder Drift (Murder Ford), was secured to
it no less by its savage aspect than by the incident
associated with it.

One morning a Kafir