EXCERPT FROM Adam Yamey's "ROGUE OF ROUXVILLE"
See: http://www.adamyamey.com
Van Der Walt
One summer morning months later in December 1872, Jakob stood outside the Anderson, waiting for a client. As it was too early for the saloon to be open, he stood in the street, watching the activity that marked the start of a working day. Officials dressed in suits strode along. It was difficult to tell whether they were deep in thought or just not fully awake. Artisans wearing aprons carried bags or pushed their barrows. Native herders encouraged their animals with sticks and shouts. Wagons drawn by teams of oxen rumbled past. Everyone was starting work before the temperature became unbearably high.
Jakob adjusted his wide brimmed hat, which, even at this early hour, was essential to protect his eyes from the sun’s intense glare. He looked at his pocket watch. In another three minutes his client would arrive if he was to be punctual, and Boer farmers like him often were. Church bells began ringing, and before the eighth chime had died away, he saw a tall man, well-built with neatly trimmed blonde hair, approaching on a horse. He was leading another one, riderless, by its reins.
“Mr Klein is it?” the horseman bellowed from his elevated position.
Jakob looked up at the speaker’s pock-marked face, noting that his nose was misshapen. It bent awkwardly towards the left. Also, his upper lip was disfigured. He suspected that this and the deformed nose were results of brawling.
“Have I kept you waiting long?” the new arrival asked, displaying his few remaining upper front teeth, some of them blackened, and all of them were chipped.
“Not at all, Mr Van Der Walt, you’re bang on time.”
“Can you ride?” the new arrival asked, looking disdainfully at Jakob’s far from athletic build.
“Ach, of course: I was born with horses around me. In the little town where…”
Van Der Walt interrupted him by pointing at the horse standing next to his, and saying:
“Let’s get started before it gets too bleddy hot, Klein.”
With an agility that surprised the Boer, Jakob put a foot in one stirrup, and swung himself gracefully onto the saddle.
“Call me Jakob. I’m not one for formality.”
That was no understatement, Van Der Walt thought looking his short, untidily dressed companion, who was busy adjusting the stirrups to suit his short legs.
“Alright, Jack, call me ‘Dirk’.”
The two men trotted along the main street of Rouxville towards Reitlinger’s store, where they turned right to join the road that led northwards to Smithfield. Jakob glanced at the shop. He saw Matsimela busy sweeping the stoep in front of it, slowed down, lifted his hat, and waved to him.
“Have a good day, Jakob,” the native called.
“Give my regards to the baas!”
“Ag, you know he will beat me if I say that.”
Jakob caught up with Van Der Walt, who had ridden ahead.
“Who’s that kaffir?”
“I’ve known him a long time.”
“Your servant, is it?”
