Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 7 ) Our Last Hunt

In the morning we found the waggon still in the drift, although partly hidden by the flood, but the force of the stream had half-floated and half-forced it round on to higher ground; only the anchoring chain had saved it.  We had to wait some hours for the river to run down, and then to my relief the rested but staggering oxen pulled it out at the first attempt. Rooiland, the light red ox with blazing yellow eyes and topped horns, fierce and untamable to the end, was in the lead then.  I saw him as he took the strain in that last pull, and it was pitiful to see the restless eager spirit fighting against the failing strength: he looked desperate.  The thought seems fanciful--about a dumb animal--and perhaps it is; but what happened just afterwards makes it still vivid and fitted in very curiously with the superstitious notions of the boys.  We outspanned in order to re-pack the loads, and Rooiland, who as front ox was the last to be released, stood for a few moments alone while the rest of the cattle moved away; then turning his back on them he gave a couple of low moaning bellows and walked down the road back to the drift again.  I had no doubt it was to drink; but the boys stopped their work and watched him curiously, and some remarks passed which were inaudible to me.  As the ox disappeared down the slope into the drift, Jim called to his leader to bring him back, and then turning to me, added with his usual positiveness, "Rooiland is mad.  Umtagati!  Bewitched!  He is looking for the dead ones.  He is going to die to-day!" The boy came back presently alone.  When he reached the drift, he said, Rooiland was standing breast-high in the river, and then in a moment, whether by step or slip, he was into the flood and swept away.  The leader's account was received by the others in absolute silence: a little tightening of the jaws and a little brightening of the eyes, perhaps, were all I could detect.  They were saturated with superstition, and as pagan fatalists they accepted the position without a word.  I suggested to Jim that it was nothing but a return of Rooiland's old straying habit, and probed him with questions, but could get nothing out of him; finally he walked off with an expressive shake of the head and the repetition of his former remark, without a shade of triumph, surprise, or excitement in his voice: "He is looking for the dead ones!" We were out of the fly then, and the next day we  reached Fig Tree. That was the end of the last trek.  Only three oxen reached Barberton, and they died within the week: the ruin was complete.