The whole of the rock face was a mass of beautiful maidenhair ferns, from the fronds of which dripped the water, ice-cool and as clear as crystals. The spot would be wonderful and beautiful even in a well-watered country; but here, amongst scorching sands and blistering mountains, where men died of thirst, it seemed little short of miraculous. So well hidden is it that, unless shown the spot, one might pass within a few yards of it and never dream that water was near. Except our guide, none of the other natives knew of the place. He called it _Ki-Ka-Kam_--“Great Water” in Bushman. A week of hard work having proved without a doubt that there were no more nuggets left in Dabee River, we put some more lashings on the cart, shod our horses--which had been footsore from the blistering heat of rock and sand--and started back towards Kuboos a few days before Christmas. The heat was very great, and as we had doubts as to the cart’s safe passage back through Hell’s Kloof, Ransson and I divided the dynamite, each carrying about ten pounds on our saddles. By noonday the sun beat down with such power that it was impossible to bear one’s hand on the rifle-barrel; and as the bag of dynamite hanging at the saddle banged and flopped about in a very alarming manner, I could not help remembering the instructions on each cartridge--“Not to be exposed to the rays of a tropical sun.” Ransson and Poulley were miles ahead, and once or twice, as the bag seemed to smoke, I felt inclined to untie it and “forget” to bring it along, but I knew Ransson wouldn’t do so, and so I decided to wait and see if he blew up first. By the time we got into Hell’s Kloof the air was simply sizzling, and I rode with shut eyes, trying to keep myself cool by thinking of the snow in England at Christmas, and wishing I were sitting deep in it instead of in a red-hot saddle there in Namaqualand. Just then there came a terrific bang from ahead of me. “Great Scott!” I thought, as my old nag shied and nearly bucked me off, “that’s poor old Ransson gone--and he’s got my pipe.” My rifle-butt hit the dynamite an awful whack as the pony pawed round trying to get rid of me; and altogether I was by no means dull for a minute or two. Then Poulley came running up the path towards me. “Ransson?” I gasped. “Has he bust?” “Bust be hanged!” he snorted. “Wish he had! Fired at a buck, a fine, fat, juicy klipbok, and missed it clean, at twenty yards! It’s gone up this gully. Get off, you fathead, and come on! We must get him for our Christmas dinner!”