Saidi-bin-Mohammed, native of East Africa, had been to the war a year. When the English had gone to the borders of his country to face the German enemy, Saidi had followed his white master.

One day in June, about 5 o’clock—about that time of day most pleasant in Africa, when the sun is lowering in the west and losing its intensive piercing heat—Saidi, tall, and straight and athletic, was busied outside his small grass hut, cleaning his equipment and rifle with the interest and care of one who had pride in dearly loved possessions. Across the dry, bleached, much-trampled opening of the encampment, which lay in the midst of virgin bush-land, appeared the gaunt figure of a British officer. He stooped, as with age, and his dark, tanned face bore heavy traces of exposure and hardship, in the deep-lined furrows which covered his forehead, and in the fine lines that contracted to the corners of his tired eyes. But, though worn and lean, he had still about him the bearing of resolute manhood—the bearing of one who is strong to endure and conquer, even under difficulties and a merciless tropic sun. Clive Clifford had, in the old days, been a pioneer of unbound frontiers, and a hunter of big game: to-day he was a famous scout; a man whose knowledge and whose word carried weight in the highest quarters of command.

He approached Saidi, who smiled broadly seeing that his master, whom he held in high regard, came to him. Clifford spoke in the soft, halting consonants of the Swahili language, and addressed his “boy” in kindly manner, as a man speaking to a trusted servant. “Saidi,” he said, “get ready. We go out to-night, you and I, and stay out many days. Eat food now; and be ready to leave in an hour.”

Some hours before, half a dozen Masai warriors had run into camp to report that enemy had stolen many of their cattle, and were driving them off across the border. Clifford heard the story. He knew the country the enemy were plundering, and volunteered at once to go in pursuit. It was an adventure dear to his heart.

At dusk they quietly left the noisy, troop-filled camp—the master leading, Saidi following. They were mounted on wiry, donkey-like Somali mules, animals so small that they appeared disproportionately overburdened with their load and their well-filled saddle-bags. But in this they were deceptive. Clifford knew them, from long experience, to have no equal in animal transport in the country. Tireless little animals they were, grit to the back-bone, and strong to endure long, heart-breaking treks.

Clifford was fully armed, with rifle and cartridge-filled bandolier; as was his boy. A “slouch” hat, a sleeveless khaki shirt, open at the neck; and a pair of shorts, leaving the scarred, sun-burned knees bare and free, was Clifford’s uniform. Undress, but near to coolness and comfort as possible—and protective in colour, for, when smothered in dust, as all would soon be, his light drill khaki would be as a tussock of sun-bleached grass or a hillock of sand, if danger bid him take cover....

Some hours later, after making good time in the cool of early night, the travellers began to work clear of the low thorn-bush, and emerged into open, somewhat mountainous country. Clifford was travelling west now, and travelling fast; feeling his way over the country to some distant prearranged destination. Saidi, the expert guide, was out in the lead—for no white man has eyes or hearing equal to the black in his native country. Both travellers were dismounted and led their mules. They wound their way through tall valley grass, breast high and dust-laden; over pools of mud, long sun-baked and waterless; then out, finally, on to rising ground strewn with lava rock and volcanic boulders. It was weird wilderness country, barren of habitation—virgin and waterless as on the day of Africa’s dawning.

The night progressed uneventfully. Nothing suspicious was encountered. No tracks of the cattle raiders were crossed. The air was breathlessly still, and it was oppressively hot in the valleys.

Toward midnight the waning moon drooped lower and lower on the horizon—and went out. Travelling then became slower and more wary; occasionally man or mule stumbled over a boulder painfully and noisily in the breathless darkness. No conversation passed between man and servant. Tirelessly they padded on, each certain of the other’s knowledge almost as animals are certain of the bypaths to their lair. For them the night held little mystery. They were startled not by the grim silhouettes of zebra, or hartebeeste, when, at a dozen yards, they chanced upon game herds which galloped off into the night like riderless squadrons. Nor did the whir of wings and frightened cackle of guinea-fowl, disturbed at their very feet, more than startle the mules to one brief backward jerk of their bridle reins.

Day was dawning when Saidi, who had for some hours been following an obscure track through the dark with his lynx eyes, gave a grunt of satisfaction as a gap loomed visible between two dull grey hills in front. Soon they entered a narrow pass and prepared to make camp in the hidden cavity between the hills. Here was water, and camp, and the first halt in the march; for a dry rocky river-bed, cut by the torrents of the brief rainy season, ran down the pass, and there, in a deep pocket in the solid rock, worn smooth and circular as a gigantic porridge pot, was a pool of water, green-slimed and stagnant, it is true, but priceless, nevertheless, in the sun-parched desert. The mules were off-saddled, rubbed down, and fed; and picketed under cover of the hill-side—for they were now in country where the raiders might be encountered, and every precaution was being taken to lie low and outwit the enemy.

Saidi busied himself over a small smokeless fire, making tea for his master, while Clifford lay idly on the ground watching the doves and grass-finches, which in thousands were endlessly arriving at the water-hole to drink, fearless of human presence in their haste and need to quench their thirst.

“Water far, Saidi,” said Clifford, pointing to the fluttering flock over the pool. “Birds come long distance to drink here?”

“Yes, Bwana” (master), answered Saidi. “No other water nearer than one day.”

By turns Clifford and Saidi slept and kept watch throughout the day. The camp was in the foothills of a low range, east of the Guaso Nyero Valley. Away to the west, out to the Nguruman Mountains, blue in the farthermost distance, lay the far-reaching Guaso Nyero Valley; and it was on this great plain, somewhere, that the enemy were raiding the Masai cattle. Clifford hardly expected to find trace of the enemy until after another march, when he would be well over the western side of the valley, and where he knew there was a sluggish stream and an abundance of water—that physical essential, to man and beast, anywhere in the land. But he was taking no risks—nothing for granted—for a little mistake meant life or death to the enterprise, if not to himself.

So all day long watchful eyes scanned the western plain, but only to be rewarded with the familiar sight of occasional dust-clouds; sometimes kicked up by the feet of moving game, such as zebra, hartebeeste, wildebeeste, or buffalo; and sometimes the sport of a whirlpool gust of wind which swiftly sweeps the ground, finally to rear a thin spiral dust-column tapering from the ground to a point high in the sky.

Toward sundown three Masai were sighted, worming their way in and out of the long yellow grass toward the water-hole. They came from the west, and were travelling hurriedly, perhaps fearfully—for ever and anon the rear man of the trio would cast a hasty backward glance over his shoulder. Cunningly, in fear that foe might be at the water, they swung wide of the pass before approaching, and lay down while one of their number started to steal forward in the grass to investigate. But a shout from Saidi, and then an exchange of a reassuring word or two, brought them speedily to their feet, and into camp.

Like all of the Masai race, they were strange, red-skinned fellows, those wandering cattle men of the open uplands; wholly naked but for a loin cloth, and physical pictures of the aboriginal of the plain. For arms, they had each a long assegai, and a large mat-laced shield. They were covered with dust—otherwise, their bearing conveyed nothing untoward. It would be difficult to guess that beneath those features, cool and collected, expressionless, almost sullen, there lurked the emotions of men who had been near to death an hour or two ago.

After they had all drunk copiously of water, at a little distance from Clifford, they squatted on the ground with their knees drawn up under their chins, and told their hurried, broken story.

In their own language they arrived crudely and directly at essential facts.

“Germans, master, many Germans,” said their spokesman, showing, for the first time, a spark of excitement. “This day, when sun there”—pointing to the mid-horizon south-east—“our cattle quiet—we cooking food; at that time he come—one German, two German, three German, on horse—after him come plenty Askaris [native soldiers] driving many cattle—cattle footsore, for long way he made go too fast. One German ride among us—he got small gun, and promise shoot to kill if we try to run away—Askaris come soon and bind our hands with cord; then one man stay to watch us. In little while Germans make fire and eat—plenty talk—plenty bottle [beer]—German pleased. By and by German sleep. By and by Askaris, who watch us, he sleep too—he plenty tired. Headman, he find stone beneath him and work cord binding hands against it. Sometime, cord cut—soon, then, we all free. We crawl in grass, far—afterwards we wait and watch. When the sun there” (pointing to sun’s position about three hours later) “German wake—find no boy. Plenty noise—Askari who watch us, he get plenty beating—afterwards they tie him prisoner—German afraid we run far and fast and go tell British. Soon German go—driving all cattle—our cattle too. But other cattle tired, master, he no go quick now; and German near his own country. He go Shombole and Lake Natron, one day’s trail, after that, soon he reach big German camp.”

Clifford was lost in thought—the Masai had ceased talking, and the youngest of them, a mere lad, had fallen asleep, hunched up awkwardly, on the bare, hard ground, weary beyond further caring. Saidi, who had listened attentively to all, moved off and busied himself over a fire and his master’s evening meal. The customary evening breeze had not arisen, it was close and oppressively hot, and a subdued spirit lay over the land. Clifford restlessly stirred the gravel beneath his feet, lost in his conjectures. He was wide awake and his keen, roving eyes betokened an intelligent mind stirred to unusual degree. The enterprise had taken on a serious aspect. Clifford had anticipated, if he were fortunate, he would run up against a small raiding party of one or two whites and a native soldier or two. His original difficulty, he thought, would be to track them, and overtake them. He found himself, instead, pitted against four whites and some dozen armed Askaris, whom he could head off, on their southward trail, in a single night’s march.

The odds were great—too great—but he was too far from his base to call for reinforcements; he must go on as he was, or return to camp mortified at having had the enemy within reach while admitting his inability to strike.

Clifford rose impatiently to his feet and paced to and fro.

But slowly a new resolution crept into his face and bearing, and at last his mind was made up. He called his boy. “Saidi,” he said, “I’m not going to stop here and go back; I’m going on. I may not fight, for the Germans are many; but I mean to get as near to the raiders as I can, and, for the rest, trust to luck and opportunity. You, Saidi, are free to go back if you please. I cannot order you to run the risks ahead against such odds. This is my ‘show.’”

But Saidi was staunch and true. “Where master go, I want to go—me not afraid,” he said; and indeed he did not look one whit abashed—rather was there a new-found pride in his bearing.

The undertaking thus promoted, Clifford, with mind relieved, partook of the substantial meal which Saidi had prepared. They then saddled the mules, and were ready again to take up the trail of the raiders. The exhausted Masai were given some food from Saidi’s saddle-bags and told to sleep at the water-hole for the night. They were directed to follow Clifford’s tracks in the morning, and remain at a discreet distance from the enemy, unless sent for.

On leaving camp Clifford headed out into the south-west, for it was his intention to cut across the German line of flight, well in front of them, and, before daybreak, to hide among the low kopjes east of Lake Natron. To carry this out he must travel hard all night. Accordingly the pace he set off at was determined and sustained. Man and beast perspired freely as they toiled onward; for relentlessly the night breeze held off, and the still, humid air hung, like the vapours of a hot-house, over the breathless valley. To add to the discomfort, the trotting mules raised, from the dust-laden grass, a fine dust which remained suspended in the air to irritate the nostrils and throats of the travellers, and induce a quenchless, vexing thirst. However, until midnight Clifford held on his course unfalteringly. At that hour, just before the moon went down, he halted to rest and ease the saddle-girths of the tired mules.

Half an hour later he resumed the journey; but on foot, now that it was pitch dark, the mules led, and faithful, tireless Saidi out in front trailing, with his keen eyes, over unseen landmarks, for the low hills his master had named.

They were in rough country now—rough with awkward boulders and ragged lava rocks. Moreover, the travellers were repeatedly confronted with yawning chasms—deep, dry, tortuous river-beds—which barred their path. In the inky darkness to surmount these obstacles was difficult and delaying, and Clifford cursed them roundly while he “barked” his shins in scrambling up and down banks of unknown depth, forcing his way across in the wake of Saidi, whose presence he could feel rather than see.

To add to their difficulties, the mules were restless. They were in fear of lions, for twice, away northward, the night stillness had vibrated with the awesome whouh——whouh——whouh——whouh——whouh——whouh——wwho——wwho——wwho——wwho——wwho——wwho of the King of Beasts. The sound brought terror to the hearts of the mules, and delayed progress. But, at the same time, it brought a note of good cheer to the party, for to the experienced ears of Clifford and Saidi the lions’ roar was a good omen, coming, as it did, from the north-west of their position: for they guessed that the lions were among the beasts of prey following in the track of the trekking cattle, ready to drag down and devour the weaker ones which became too exhausted to go on and were outcast from the herd. If the surmise was correct, Clifford felt sure he was cutting in well ahead of the cattle raiders—and only that result could compensate him for the toil of travelling this ghastly country in the dark.

About 4 a.m. Clifford, in spite of short halts, was feeling done up with his exertions in keeping pace with Saidi. Hardened though he was, he inwardly admitted he was about finished on this trek. He halted and whistled peculiarly to Saidi, who stopped likewise. Saidi came back to his master, apparently cool and tireless as ever, and sure of his untraced road. Clifford asked him how far he thought they were from the hills. In answer, Saidi pointed into the darkness a little to the left. “There, master,” he said, “close now—river we cross last, near to hills—soon we camp.”

Thus cheered, they started on the final tramp; but Saidi’s hills were deceptive, his “short distance” stretched out to a good two miles before the tired party reached their chosen hiding-place.

At the first inkling of dawn, Clifford moved well into the hills and secreted the mules in the bottom of a valley thickly grown with cactus. From there Clifford and Saidi made their way to a spur overlooking the plain on the west and north. Here they concealed themselves among some acacia bushes, after they had made sure that, in the event of discovery, there was a line of retreat down either slope of the spur to thicker cover—whence their hidden rifles could put up a reasonable defence against odds, if need be.

From where he stood in the early morning dawn, Clifford had a wonderful view of the wild life and of the country. Below him a small herd of graceful antelope, known as Grant’s gazelle, was browsing quietly in the immediate foreground of the plain—a plain of dry, buff-coloured grass which stretched some two miles to the west, to the shores of Lake Natron. In the intermediate distance was a great herd of unsymmetrical hartebeeste (buck of size and colour of red deer), and pony-like zebra, moving along, in ever-changing attitudes, busy on their morning feed, and lending life and colour to the peaceful scene. Along the shores of Lake Natron, white soda deposit glistened like silver in the lightening day, whilst the waters of the lake appeared dyed in pink where countless flamingoes rested. A mile or two up the valley, at the head of Lake Natron, and to the east of the swamp of tall green grass which is there, rugged old Shombole mountain stood prominent with its furrowed surface of deep ravines and back-bone ridges, the whole overawed by the sheer cliff face, and the inaccessible plateau at the towering crest, of the most westerly range. In many places the outer slopes of Shombole were buff with the dry, yellow grass of the plains, but in the ravines, and on sheltered slopes, dark-green foliage grew where overcrowded masses of impenetrable cactus had found root, and an existence, amongst the rocks.

Meantime there was no sign of the enemy—nothing moved, except droves of game in this hunter’s paradise.

Clifford estimated that he was an hour or two ahead of the raiders, and soon he dozed in the cool of the morning—leaving Saidi on guard. He trusted the boy completely, for the experience of long months had proved him always faithful and fearless to serve. Faithful as a wonderful dog was Saidi, and “greater faith hath no man.” Saidi worshipped his master.

Some hours passed—Clifford had fallen into profound sleep after his long night’s exertion, for he was more easily tired now than in the old days before he knew the impairing ravages of fever. The heightened day found Saidi still at his post. But he was now tense and alert, and his eyes were eagerly fixed on a cloud of dust approaching from the north. There were the raiders! of that he was sure; for he had seen a horseman break off to the right, clear of the dust, for a moment or two. However, he would not wake his master yet; the raiders were far out at present, and the cattle they herded moved very slowly.

In a short time, however, he espied two horsemen riding forward, at an easy gallop, clear of the herd. They were probably coming on ahead to select their noon camp, confident that the plain was uninhabited but by themselves. Seeing this, Saidi woke Clifford, who was instantly on his feet, and eager to sight the enemy.

Immediately a daring scheme of attack flashed through Clifford’s mind—the enemy were playing into his hands in separating their forces. Hastily he lifted his rifle, spoke a few excited words to Saidi, and started to steal through the grass down to the plain on the west. Once on the plain they scrambled and crawled, under cover of a dry, shallow rivulet, seeking to reach the probable line over which the advancing horsemen would pass. Over a mile they laboured, slowly, awkwardly, until, scratched, torn, and breathless with their mad haste, they lay still; near to the place on which the enemy were bearing.

As Fate would have it, the horsemen bore straight down on them, utterly unaware of danger. Clifford whispered to Saidi that he was to shoot the nearest horse at the same time as he (Clifford) fired. With their rifles in the grass, and with heads low, they watched and waited. Grim was the expression on their faces now, all outward excitement had gone: nerves were set, and “steeled” against the coming effort. Suddenly—when the horses were barely fifteen yards away, Clifford whispered tersely, “Now!” Simultaneously, both rifles spoke, and all was violent struggle and confusion on the ground in front. Clifford stood upright and fired quickly again. Then, harshly, he called out a command in German, while like a flash his rifle swung to his right and remained aimed at its object. Unmoved, he ordered Saidi from his hiding-place. Both horses were down, and the nearest German; the other German had his hands up, covered by Clifford. Saidi removed the German’s rifle, which lay on the ground where it had been thrown when the horse, with its rider, fell. The prisoner was then speedily bound and gagged, so that he could not warn the others, and concealed in the rivulet ditch. The other German was dead, and both horses. The horses could not be moved, so, to disguise them from sight at a distance, the carcases were hastily covered with prairie grass.

Meantime the main body of the enemy was approaching, but, luckily, at a slow pace. The scene enacted had been lost to the other raiders, for a low rise lay between them and the ground, gently falling to the lake, where Clifford had ambushed the leaders. The rifle shots they must have heard, but, as they were not expecting enemy, they would probably think that their comrades were after game, for meat for their natives, as was common practice.

After making certain that the prisoner was securely bound and concealed, and unable to move away, Clifford now moved hastily forward; his intention being to reach the protection of a small knoll about six hundred yards nearer to the approaching enemy and away from the condemning signs of catastrophe. But before he got there, dust, over the rise, warned him and his boy to take cover. So they lay on the open veldt, in the hay grass, not daring to move to better cover, for, at any instant now, horsemen, or keen-sighted Askari, might appear in view. Lying there, Clifford gave his orders to Saidi, who grinned still over the success of their first attack. “Fire like H—, Saidi! at Askaris—make plenty noise—make him think plenty British here. Make him run!”

Clifford was confident of the outcome now, and eager for the fray. By an extraordinary piece of luck the white opposition had been evened up: and now he had the advantage of surprise, and the consequent target for his deadly rifle.

Slowly the raiders appeared in view over the rising ground, and drew on. Together the Germans scanned the plain ahead, but beyond a word or two they, apparently, did not trouble about the non-appearance of their comrades—they thought, no doubt, that theirs was only a momentary disappearance behind some low ridge in the distance.

The raiders sat their horses idly, and watched the tired cattle being herded on; they swore at their Askaris and urged them, time without number, to lash on the many laggards. Apparently they were weary of their work, and tired of the trek.

Clifford and Saidi were waiting breathlessly. The herd was a bit to the right, but was going to pass them at about fifty yards. Steadily they drew on. Again the rifles were ready in the grass; again Clifford’s terse, “now!” was whispered, and startling shots rang out. And then the scene was like a battle. Shots poured from their hidden haven in the grass, as fast as they could load and fire, simply to disguise their strength and frighten the blacks.

Clifford had brought down his first man, but the second white he missed, as his startled horse plunged and threw the rider. For a time the German replied vigorously to their fire, but luckily he couldn’t see through the grass, and no bullet got home. Suddenly he rose and scrambled on to one of the horses and galloped off. Twice Clifford fired and missed, but at the third shot the German crumpled up and slid limply from his mount. Clifford now ran forward, and caught the remaining horse; Saidi following at his heels. Shots whistled and cracked around them, but all were wide of the mark; for the Askari is a poor marksman. Into the blacks rode Clifford, reckless and wild, driving them to panic and confusion. Two went down with his first shots, the rest, five in number, leapt from the grass and fled in frantic disorder. One more fell, sprawling, to Clifford’s marksmanship, and another was winged. But by that time the remainder had spread and got farther afield, and Clifford gave up the chase, afraid to get too far away from Saidi, who might be in difficulties.

Returning, Clifford found Saidi broadly smiling, as was his wont when greatly pleased. He had accounted for three Askaris. Clifford praised the boy—though he seldom gave praise to a native—and told him, now, to make “plenty big feed” for himself, and then to sleep—the boy had had no rest since the day before.

While Saidi busied himself lighting a fire, Clifford counted the cost.

One German was dead, one wounded. Four Askaris were dead, and three wounded. After he had gone back and brought the prisoner to camp, Clifford attended to the wounded. When that gruesome work was finished, he sought a vantage-point on a rise, and, from there, sent three piercing whistles out over the plain.

He was soon rewarded by the sight of natives, showing in the grass, about a mile to the east. They were the three Masai left behind overnight; and he signalled to them to come on.

In a short time the Masai came up.

Fear was first in their approach, then astonishment, when they sighted the destruction of the enemy, and Clifford and Saidi in complete possession of the cattle. Their usually passive faces broke into broad smiles, they gesticulated excitedly in their exclamations over the extraordinary scene; and, finally, they came, one by one, before Clifford, to voice their timid gratitude, and to salaam profoundly, as vassals to their lord. He was, in their eyes, indeed a mighty and wonderful white chief.

A “chit” was written to G.H.Q. asking for a mounted patrol to be sent out to conduct the cattle back to a safe area, and a Masai runner was dispatched with it to camp—with instructions, also, to send word to his tribe to furnish some men to dig graves.

The remaining Masai counted the cattle. They numbered close on seven hundred head—a substantial meat ration for the Europeans over the border, if the raid had succeeded. Clifford directed the Masai to drive the cattle slowly back to the Guaso Nyero River, and to wait for him at the bend beyond the northern slopes of Mount Shombole. Before leaving, they released the hidden mules, and drove them also to water.

Three days later an officer and a native soldier rode into the British camp, dust-covered and with clothes torn. Dismounting, the officer left his mule in the care of the native and passed on to the encampment of G.H.Q.

Down the dry dust-thick lanes of the camp stalked the well-known figure of the famous scout—the lean, the brown, the worn bushman, scarred and tired with exposure and climate—a thing of the wild world and the silent places—unassuming, almost shy. But, on a thousand lips the news flew among the troops that Clive Clifford was back—and glad men came from their tents to cheer him past.

And Saidi, unsaddling the mules in the horse lines, hearing the welcome, smiled in content.