We were accompanied by two of the Namaqualand District Police, whose unenviable task it was to search for the body of a Hottentot supposed to be dead of thirst somewhere in the mountains beyond Hell’s Kloof. He had been missing for some time, and a relative--a guide who knew the mountains well--had found his spoor in the Dabee River--close to where we were returning to try for gold. They are wonderful trackers, these Hottentots, and this guide could tell that the missing man had been staggering and in an exhausted condition when he had left our old water-hole--which was long since dry--and as he (the guide) knew of no water for a full day’s trek in any direction, he concluded the man was dead. Neither of the police had been through Hell’s Kloof before, and they did not care how soon their unpleasant task was over. A long day’s ride brought us to near the Numees mine, and early the following day we started through Hell’s Kloof. The six sturdy oxen were either of them individually capable of dragging the light cart and its contents over the greater part of the track--bad as it was--but unfortunately they were not used to being yoked to anything smaller than a waggon with a span of about sixteen beasts, and the task of driving them was an extremely difficult one, as often they were pulling in different directions. But we successfully negotiated bad spot after bad spot, and had arrived within sight of the formidable ascent out of the Kloof which had hung us up before, when, on going down a short but very steep slope, the leaders jibbed and stopped, the wheelers kept on and ran into them, and the cart took charge. It side-skidded a yard or two, and then went down with a run. Smash went the disselboom, into a steep face of rock went the cart, and bags, boxes, tools, dynamite, bottles of acid, pestles and mortars went flying in all directions. The detonators were in my pocket, but still the little hair I have remaining rose as I saw the case of dynamite describe the arc of a circle in the air a few feet from me, and come down with a bang on a rock, splitting it open and scattering the cartridges in all directions. A large glass jar containing “aqua regia” (a potent mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acids) also came down on the stones, and, remarkably enough, although the stopper was broken sheer off, the jar was otherwise uninjured. And among the débris of our belongings the six oxen plunged and cavorted, and by the time we had cut them clear everything was stamped flat.... But the cart! It was a mass of splinters, the disselboom in fragments, and the whole of the forepart wrecked, the ironwork twisted and broken, and practically nothing intact but the wheels. At first sight it appeared impossible to ever make a cart of it again, even if we had a whole waggon-builder’s staff and tools at our disposal; as for doing it in Hell’s Kloof, the idea was preposterous.