us when we arrived at Tom Barnett's. We who had 

 hurried on to catch him, believing that the vengeance 

 of justice depended on us, forgot that it has been 

 otherwise decreed. 



Tom stood in the doorway of his store as we walked 

 up five feet one in his boots, but every inch of it a 

 man with his hands resting idly on his hips and a 

 queer smile on his face as he nodded welcome. 



" Did a white man come here on horseback during 

 the last few days from the Drift ? " 

 " No ! " 

 " On foot ? " 

 " No, not the whole way." 

 " Is he here now ? " 

 Tom nodded. 



" You know about him, Tom ? " 

 " Seedling ! the chap you're after, isn't it ? ' 

 " Yes," we answered, lowering our voices. 

 Tom looked from one to the other with the same 

 queer smile, and then making a move to let us into the 

 store said quietly : " He won't clear, boys ; he's dead ! " 

 Some kaffirs coming along the footpath from the 

 'Bombo had found the horse dead of horse-sickness 

 half a day away, and further on only a mile or so 

 from the store the rider lying on his back in the sun, 

 dying of thirst. He died before they got him in. 



He was buried under a big fig-tree where another 

 and more honoured grave was made later on. 

 ***** 



Jim sat by himself the whole evening and never 

 spoke a word. 



