do? To trust You more than my own strength?"
No amount of drink or stubbornness ever changed things. He still awoke each day with the same feeling of hopelessness. "I submit. Do you hear me, Lord? This isn't the Damascus road. I'm not Saul. I have people to save."
Rubbing at his mouth, he slumped in his saddle. His poor horse refused to move another step. Blast it.
Gareth soon heard what his gelding must have. The sound of hooves pounded toward him. He jerked the reigns and forced his horse to turn. Bracing for confrontation, he looked toward the brush.
The blurs came into view. Dark and tall. Warriors on bareback. The Xhosa. The fuzzy plumes above their head meant these were the most skilled of their clan.
He unhitched his rapier and prepared. He wasn't going to die on this dirt road alone. His heart thudded. Lord, forgive me. My stubbornness, my doubts, my lack of forgiveness, my lack of trust are all sins to You .
He raised his sword and spurred his horse forward. Take care of those I love, of those I have led.
The wind moved past him. Dust from the oncoming men reached him. It was raw, blending with the musk of his lathering horse. Fitting, his last smell would be pure, the pureness of South Africa. He ducked down and drove harder.
When he reached within five hundred paces of the three riders, he saw a fourth coming full bore at his left. This was an ambush. The Xhosa liked hiding in the brush then springing into attack. He must've stirred up too much noise looking for the old chief. Now Bezile's men were coming to finish him.
It wasn't the time to die with so many things undone, unspoken. And Precious, not enough time to love her. A sense of peace lifted him as he raised his rapier. He wasn't going to be murdered here. God would give him the chance to make amends. He'd trust in this renewed peace.
"Yima! Yima!"
The shout became louder, clearer as did the warriors coming toward him.
"Y-I-M-A!"
Wasn't yima, the Xhosa command for stop? Trickery. This had to be how the Xhosa had become so skilled in their warfare techniques.
Gareth sped his horse more intent to engage and win.
The fourth man shouted anew. "Yima!"
This time the line of warriors slowed. They lowered their assegai. One by one with their sharp hunting spears by their side, they turned from Gareth's path and sped back into the tree line.
Gareth lowered his rapier. He wasn't to kill today. Or to die. His lungs filled with the dust of the retreating horses. Maybe some of things unsaid to Precious could be relayed after all.
More commands came forth from behind. He turned his gelding toward the voice that had stopped the assault.
"Mzwamadoda?"
The black man on the silver and ebony Arabian pounded closer. "You aren't a hard man to find, mate. Countless numbers have witnessed the white man seeking the old Xhosa chief. I've been on your trail the past five hours. Seems like I found you just in time. Wonder what the Precious one will do for me?"
Gareth hadn't been discreet, not with so much at stake. He wiped the perspiration off his brow with his jacket. "Precious?" Gareth felt every muscle tense at the cheeky look on his friend's face. To avoid turning his rapier on the man who had just stopped a fight, he eased back in his saddle. "She sent you? Is that why you are here?"
"Well, it wasn't to save your life. Though I suppose I'm glad I did. I promised the Precious one to retrieve you. She should know I'm a man of my word. I don't suppose that meant dragging a dead Welling back to Port Elizabeth."
Gareth should say thank you to the man who'd just stopped unnecessary bloodshed, but hearing Precious's name leaving Mzwamadoda's mouth made him burn. "You saw Precious?"
A grin grew on Mzwamadoda's face as he rubbed his jaw. Mirth clouded his dark eyes. "Yes, I saw her."
He pulled his horse alongside Gareth's. "I came looking for you. Seems I was right too. Bezile is a little anxious for revenge. He's not going to wait the full
No amount of drink or stubbornness ever changed things. He still awoke each day with the same feeling of hopelessness. "I submit. Do you hear me, Lord? This isn't the Damascus road. I'm not Saul. I have people to save."
Rubbing at his mouth, he slumped in his saddle. His poor horse refused to move another step. Blast it.
Gareth soon heard what his gelding must have. The sound of hooves pounded toward him. He jerked the reigns and forced his horse to turn. Bracing for confrontation, he looked toward the brush.
The blurs came into view. Dark and tall. Warriors on bareback. The Xhosa. The fuzzy plumes above their head meant these were the most skilled of their clan.
He unhitched his rapier and prepared. He wasn't going to die on this dirt road alone. His heart thudded. Lord, forgive me. My stubbornness, my doubts, my lack of forgiveness, my lack of trust are all sins to You .
He raised his sword and spurred his horse forward. Take care of those I love, of those I have led.
The wind moved past him. Dust from the oncoming men reached him. It was raw, blending with the musk of his lathering horse. Fitting, his last smell would be pure, the pureness of South Africa. He ducked down and drove harder.
When he reached within five hundred paces of the three riders, he saw a fourth coming full bore at his left. This was an ambush. The Xhosa liked hiding in the brush then springing into attack. He must've stirred up too much noise looking for the old chief. Now Bezile's men were coming to finish him.
It wasn't the time to die with so many things undone, unspoken. And Precious, not enough time to love her. A sense of peace lifted him as he raised his rapier. He wasn't going to be murdered here. God would give him the chance to make amends. He'd trust in this renewed peace.
"Yima! Yima!"
The shout became louder, clearer as did the warriors coming toward him.
"Y-I-M-A!"
Wasn't yima, the Xhosa command for stop? Trickery. This had to be how the Xhosa had become so skilled in their warfare techniques.
Gareth sped his horse more intent to engage and win.
The fourth man shouted anew. "Yima!"
This time the line of warriors slowed. They lowered their assegai. One by one with their sharp hunting spears by their side, they turned from Gareth's path and sped back into the tree line.
Gareth lowered his rapier. He wasn't to kill today. Or to die. His lungs filled with the dust of the retreating horses. Maybe some of things unsaid to Precious could be relayed after all.
More commands came forth from behind. He turned his gelding toward the voice that had stopped the assault.
"Mzwamadoda?"
The black man on the silver and ebony Arabian pounded closer. "You aren't a hard man to find, mate. Countless numbers have witnessed the white man seeking the old Xhosa chief. I've been on your trail the past five hours. Seems like I found you just in time. Wonder what the Precious one will do for me?"
Gareth hadn't been discreet, not with so much at stake. He wiped the perspiration off his brow with his jacket. "Precious?" Gareth felt every muscle tense at the cheeky look on his friend's face. To avoid turning his rapier on the man who had just stopped a fight, he eased back in his saddle. "She sent you? Is that why you are here?"
"Well, it wasn't to save your life. Though I suppose I'm glad I did. I promised the Precious one to retrieve you. She should know I'm a man of my word. I don't suppose that meant dragging a dead Welling back to Port Elizabeth."
Gareth should say thank you to the man who'd just stopped unnecessary bloodshed, but hearing Precious's name leaving Mzwamadoda's mouth made him burn. "You saw Precious?"
A grin grew on Mzwamadoda's face as he rubbed his jaw. Mirth clouded his dark eyes. "Yes, I saw her."
He pulled his horse alongside Gareth's. "I came looking for you. Seems I was right too. Bezile is a little anxious for revenge. He's not going to wait the full
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