Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 24)( Page 5 ) The Last Trek

Then came one black day as we crawled slowly along the river bank, which is not to be  forgotten.  In one of the cross-spruits cutting sharply down to the river the second waggon stuck: the poor tired-out cattle were too weak and dispirited to pull it out.  Being short of drivers and leaders it was necessary to do the work in turns, that is, after getting one waggon through a bad place, to go back for another.  We had to double-span this waggon, taking the span from the front waggon back to hook on in front of the other; and on this occasion I led the span while Jim drove.  We were all tired out by the work and heat, and I lay down in the dusty road in front of the oxen to rest while the chains were being coupled up.  I looked up into old Zwaartland's eyes, deep, placid, constant, dark grey eyes--the ox-eyes of which so many speak and write and so few really know.  There was trouble in them; he looked anxious and hunted; and it made me heart-sick to see it. When the pull came, the back span, already disheartened and out of hand, swayed and turned every way, straining the front oxen to the utmost; yet Zwaartland took the strain and pulled.  For a few moments both front oxen stood firm; then his mate cut it and turned; the team swung away with a rush, and the old fellow was jerked backwards and rolled over on his side.  He struggled gamely, but it was some minutes before he could rise; and then his eye looked wilder and more despairing; his legs were planted apart to balance him, and his flanks were Jim straightened up the double span again.  Zwaartland leaned forward once more, and the others followed his lead; the waggon moved a little and they managed to pull it out.  But I, walking in front, felt the brave old fellow stagger, and saw him, with head lowered, plod blindly like one stricken to death. We outspanned on the rise, and I told Jim to leave the reim on Zwaartland's head.  Many a good turn from him deserved one more from me--the last.  I sent Jim for the rifle, and led the old front ox to the edge of the donga where a bleached tree lay across it...  He dropped into the donga under the dead tree; and I packed the dry branches over him and set fire to the pile.  It looks absurd now; but to leave him to the wolf and the jackal seemed like going back on a friend; and the queer looks of the boys, and what they would think of me, were easier to bear.  Jim watched, but said nothing: with a single grunt and a shrug of his shoulders he stalked back to the waggons. The talk that night at the boys' fire went on in lo -pitched tones--not a single word audible to me; but I knew what it was about.  As Jim stood up to get his blanket off the waggon, he stretched himself and closed off the evening's talk with his Zulu click and the remark that "All white men are mad, in some way." So we crawled on until we reached the turn where the road turned between the mountain range and the river and where the railway runs to-day. There, where afterwards Cassidy did his work, we outspanned one day when the heat became so great that it was no longer possible to go on.  For weeks the storm-clouds had gathered, threatened, and dispersed; thunder had come half-heartedly, little spots of rain enough to pock-mark the dust; but there had been no break in the drought.