The
expiring sun sent across the valley a flood of golden light, that gilded
the rugged old mountain of Suswa over the way.
"Directly on the other side of Suswa," C. told me, "there is a 'pan' of
hard clay. This rain will fill it, and we shall find water there. We can
take a night's rest, and set off comfortably in the morning."
So the rain that had soaked us so thoroughly was a blessing after all.
While we were cooking supper the wagon passed us, its wheels and frame
creaking, its great whip cracking like a rifle, its men shrieking at the
imperturbable team of eighteen oxen. It would travel until the oxen
wanted to graze, or sleep, or scratch an ear, or meditate on why is a
Kikuyu. Thereupon they would be outspanned and allowed to do it,
whatever it was, until they were ready to go on again. Then they would
go on. These sequences might take place at any time of the day or night,
and for greater or lesser intervals of time. That was distinctly up to
the oxen; the human beings had mighty little to say in the matter. But
transport riding, from the point of view of the rank outsider, really
deserves a chapter of its own.
XXXV.
THE TRANSPORT RIDER.
The wagon is one evolved in South Africa--a long, heavily-constructed
affair, with ingenious braces and timbers so arranged as to furnish the
maximum clearance with the greatest facility for substitution in case
the necessity for repairs might arise.
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