3. THE RED PEBBLES OF TANDBERG

Chapter 1

STRANGE VISITOR

It is hot and boring in the small bar in Graskolk, the small border village near the tip of the Tandberg in the wild, far northern Cape Colony.

The men standing there wave at the flies and drink their drinks. Their hats are pushed back on their sweaty heads, and there is not much talk because it is almost too hot to talk.

Today’s cattle auction is over. The wagons, the neat spider carriages, the riders have almost all left. The excitement is over. The distraction that such an auction always brings is a thing of the past, and only the local men remain. Usually, they don’t know what to do with themselves when such a distraction is over.

In its history, Graskolk has only had one major incident. Three years ago. But even that incident is almost forgotten.

The men barely look up when they hear the creaking of the two small swing doors through which one enters the bar. They don’t even turn their heads when they hear the quick footsteps on the plank floor.

But when Kraai Hanekom bursts in here among them and makes his announcement, then heads turn and then a light of interest comes into their eyes.

“Guys,” says Kraai Hanekom. “If you want to see something, look out in the street.”

“What is it?” is asked back and forth. The first impressions range from a visit by a stray young lion or an attack by wild Bushmen or perhaps a large snake that has sailed into the main street.

“What is it, Kraai?” asks Basie Broeksema, a big, rough-built man with two huge shoulders and a neck like the hump of an Afrikaner bull.

“No,” says Kraai Hanekom mysteriously, “rather go and look for yourselves.”

Such an invitation is too much for the men. They feel for the butts of their pistols as they turn away from the bar as one man and hurry to the window. Some go and take up position in front of the window, and others go and peek over the two small swing doors that are still rocking back and forth after Kraai Hanekom’s quick entry.

The men fall silent when they see what has aroused Kraai Hanekom’s interest. It is indeed a sight to behold. It is a scene that one probably sees once in twenty years here in Graskolk.

It is a rider who has ridden into one street of Graskolk. It is a showy animal, that, a pale sorrel with almost pure white mane hair. A show-off that lifts his paws high and elegantly. His neck is curved, and his broad croup is pale in the sunlight. It is a special horse, such as one rarely sees. An animal that every border farmer will admire. But they only look very fleetingly at that fancy horse. It is actually the rider who attracts their attention.

Because the rider is a woman. She sits comfortably in the large English military saddle. She is wearing riding pants like a man. That in itself is something special for these men because it is not something that a man sees every day in the area. On her jet-black hair, which is caught in a neat bun behind her head, is a cute hat with a large brim, and what they notice most is the two long sheaths on either side of the saddle pommel. They see the rifle butts protruding from there. They see the bandolier around her body, and they see the pistol swinging here next to her.

She sits that horse like a man would sit him.

“Good heavens, good heavens,” says Oom Gerrie Volgraaff. “But she can ride him. She rides him like a man.”

The others remain speechless until the rider swings out of the saddle here in front of the small hotel and ties her horse to the halter railing. The men practically gasp for breath. She is petite, but solidly and firmly built. She is a beautiful person. She looks as upright as her riding horse. Her hair is blue-black, her eyes are almost purple, and her skin is deep brown like old honey from the cliff.

She looks around a bit, and it seems as if she takes in everything, about everything, in Graskolk