Perceval Gibbon

“ The Trader of Last Notch
by
Perceval Gibbon
Author of "Vrouw Grobelaar and Her Leading Cases,," etc.
IN Manicaland summer wears the livery of the tropics. At the foot of the hills north of Macequece every yard of earth is vocal with life, and the bush is brave with color. Where the earth shows, it is red, as though a wound bled. The mimosas have not yet come to flower, but amid their delicate green the long thorns, straight or curved like claws, gleam with the flash of silver. Palms poise aloft, brilliant and delicate, and under foot flowers are abroad. ”

“ Mills stared open-mouthed. "A woman!" he gasped.
"A woman," replied Dave. "Shot her, as bold as the devil, on the street, in the daytime, and did a bolt for the bush. Every man that could put foot to the ground is out after him."
A Kafir arrived then with the lantern Mills had designed for the Frenchman, and by its light he was able to see the faces of the men. They were all known to him. The man who was cording the prisoner's arms had seen his daring work at Mandega's. He knelt on the prostrate form as he worked, and the Frenchman's face showed like a waxen mask on the ground. ”

“ He sat back again, and Mills turned matters over. In that rough community no man would own himself devoid of gratitude. "I'll do as much for you," was the common acknowledgment of a favor. It appeared to Mills that his new acquaintance might be a precious scoundrel, but that point was not at present in issue, and there remained a debt to be satisfied before he could raise that point. The knowledge that Frenchy had shot a man did not trouble him in the least, so long as the accompanying circumstances and the motive were in accordance with the simple standards of Manicaland. ”

“ Mills stood moodily watching the men eat, his brain drumming on the anguished problem of the Frenchman's life or death without effort or volition on his part.
"Got any more poosa, old boy?" asked Dave, setting down the whisky bottle empty.
"Yes," said Mills thoughtfully. "Plenty." He shouted for a boy, and one came running.
"Go to the store-hut," ordered Mills slowly, "and bring a bottle of whisky." He spoke the "kitchen-Kafir" that every one in Manicaland understands. ”

“ When another man would have said. "Damn the heat," and done with it, John Mills, the trader, tasted the word on his lip, forbore to slip it, and counted it to himself for virtue. He set a large value on restraint, which, in view of his strength and resolute daring, was perhaps not wholly false. He was a large man, more noticeable for a sturdy solidness of proportion than for height, and his strong face was won to pleasantness by a brown beard, which he wore "navy fash." His store, five big huts above the kloof known as Last Notch, was at the heart of a large Kafir population ”

“ But I guess we won't say we've lost the Frenchman yet."
He lowered his brows and turned his eyes on Mills.
"You an' him's quits, Jack," he said. "What do you think about it?"
Mills looked up slowly. like a man newly awaked from a dream.
"You might get a shot at him from the path," he answered musingly. "That is, if he's keeping north. I'll show you the place."
"You don't think we'd have a chance of catching him?"
"Not a ghost, " replied the trader decisively. "Once you get into the kloof, he's lost. All you can do is wait till he breaks cover down below, an' try a long shot. By God!" ”

“ They washed in the open air, sluicing themselves from buckets, and dressed again in clean dungarees in another hut.
"Skoff [food] 'll be ready by now," said Mills, "but I think a gargle's the first thing. You'll have whisky or gin?"
The Frenchman pronounced for whisky, and took it neat. Mills stared.
"If I took off a dose like that," he observed, "I should be as drunk as an owl. You know how to shift it!"
"Eh?"
"Gimme patience," prayed the trader. "You bleat like a yowe. I said you can take it, the drink. Savvy? Wena poosa meningi sterrik. Have some more?" ”

“ He gave Mills back a look as purposeful as his own.
"I'm the man that save you in the river," he said meaningly.
"Well," began the trader hotly, but stopped. "That's true," he answered thoughtfully, as though speaking to himself. "Yes, that's true. You've got me, Frenchy."
"Yais," went on the Frenchman, leaning forward across the table, and speaking with an emphasis that was like an insult. "You sink there in the sand. I stop and save you. I stop, you see, although the men from Macequece coom after me and want to kill me. But I don't run away; I don' say to you, 'I can' stop. You go down ”

“ The Englishmen and Portuguese of the country held him in favor, and he enjoyed that esteem which a strong quiet man, who has proved himself to have reserves of violence, commonly wins from turbulent neighbors. ”

“ Mills shifted his gun from shoulder to shoulder, and suffered still from heat and sweat. His taller companion went more easily, striding along as Mills thought, glancing at him, "like a fox." The warmth appeared not to distress him in the least.
"By Jove," exclaimed the trader. "You're the build of man for this blooming country. You travel as if you was born to it. Don't the heat trouble you at all?"
"Oh, no," answered the Frenchman carelessly. "You see, I come from a 'ot country. In France it is ver' often 'ot. But you don' like it, eh?"
"No," said the trader, with emphasis. ”

“ Did you kill a bloke, or what?"
"Jone Mills," said the Frenchman—"Jone Mills shoot the Intendente at Mandega's. Kill 'im dead. Dead as pork. They don' chase Jone Mills. They don' wan' to shoot Jone Mills. No. Frenchy—po' ol' Frenchy—'e shoot a man in Macequece. Shoot 'im dead. Dead as pork. Then they all coom after 'im. Wan' to shoot 'im. An' po' ol' Frenchy, 'e stop to pull Jone Mills out of the river. 'E save Jone Mills. Jone squeak an' say, 'Shoot me quick bofo' I choke.' But Frenchy stop an' pull 'im out. Yais. An' then they shoot Frenchy. Yais!" ”

“ Though ever so 'umble, ye know, there's no place like home."
"Tha's all right," assented the other gaily. "I know a man name' Albert Smith, an' 'e sing that in the jail at Beira. Sing all the night till I stop 'im with a broom. Yais." Mills grunted, and they entered the skoff kia—the largest of the huts, sacred to the uses of a dining-room. ”