The men were all Africans, the picked hunters from the tribe of the Bamangwato.  They were out on the spoor of a great lion that had made himself the terror of the tribe.  Night after night the lion had leapt among their oxen and had slain the choicest in the chief’s herds.  Again and again the hunters had gone out on the trail of the ferocious beast; but always they returned empty-handed, though boasting loudly of what they would do when they should face the lion.

“To-morrow, yes, to-morrow,” cried a young Bamangwato hunter rolling his eyes, “I will slay tau e bogale—­the fierce lion.”

The voices of the men rose on the night air as the whole group declared that the beast should ravage their herds no more—­the whole group, except one.  This young man’s tense face and the keen eyes that glowed in the firelight showed his contempt for those who swaggered so much and did so little.  He was Khama, the son of Sekhome, the chief.  The wild flames gleamed on him as he stood there, full six feet of tireless manhood leaning on his gun, like a superb statue carved in ebony.  Those swift, spare limbs of his, that could keep pace with a galloping horse, gave him the right to his name, Khama—­the Antelope.

The voices dropped, and the men, rolling themselves in the skins of wild beasts, lay down and slept—­all except one, whose eyes watched in the darkness as sleeplessly as the stars.  When they were asleep Khama took up his gun and went out into the starry night.

The night passed.  As the first flush of dawn paled the stars, and the men around the cold ashes of the fire sat up, they gazed in awed amazement.  For they saw, striding toward them, their tall young chieftain; and over his shoulders hung the tawny skin and mane of a full-grown king lion.  Alone in the night he had slain the terror of the tribe!

The men who had boasted of what they meant to do and had never performed, never heard Khama—­either at that time or later—­make any mention of this great feat.

It was no wonder that the great Bamangwato tribe looked at the tall, silent, resolute young chieftain and, comparing him with his crafty father Sekhome and his treacherous, cowardly younger brother Khamane, said, “Khama is our boikanyo—­our confidence.”

The Fight with the Witch-doctors

The years went by; and that fierce old villain Sekhome plotted and laid ambush against the life of his valiant son, Khama.  Men who followed David Livingstone into Africa had come as missionaries to his tribe and had taught him the story of Jesus and given him the knowledge of reading and writing.  So Khama had become a Christian, though Sekhome his father was still a heathen witch-doctor.  Khama would have nothing to do with the horrible ceremonies by which the boys of the tribe were initiated into manhood; nor would he look on the heathen rain-making incantations, though his father smoked with anger against him.  Under a thousand insults and threats of death Khama stood silent, never insulting nor answering again, and always treating with respect his unnatural father.