by Wilbur Smith
Zouga did not look back again; he knew the stallion was bearing down on them, fast, too fast, but Zouga dismissed them from his attention and slid the carbine from the leather boot at his knee and opened the breech, checking the load.
The targets were white china soup plates, the range two hundred yards, extreme range after a gallop like this.
The stewards were waving their hats to guide him up to the firing line.
"This way, Major."
Zouga dropped the reins as he reached the low barrier of thorn branches that marked the firing line, and Tom came up short. He swung up the carbine, and fired as the butt slapped into his shoulder. One of the far-off specks of white burst and vanished. He cranked another round into the chamber, and glanced over his shoulder.
The stallion was still half a mile away, but coming on with a war drum of hooves.
Zouga fired again, but Tom was blowing between his knees, heaving with the effort of the wild gallop.
"Damn it to hell."
Haste would be fatal now, but his fingers fumbled the reload and a shiny brass cartridge slipped and struck his boot before it fell into the sand. He thrust another into the breech, took a long slow breath, and judged Tom's movements beneath him.
The rifle jumped against his shoulder, and the acrid plume of gunsmoke blew into his face. The second target exploded.
"Two down, Major," one of the stewards shouted, and then as he fired again, "Three down, one to go!" Then beside Zouga the golden stallion came plunging to a halt, coming back low on glossy bunched quarters.
Louise vaulted from his back in a swirl of beaded buckskin skirts.
There was a flash of the silky skin of her upper calf above the boot, and the back of a dimpled knee. Even in the press of the moment, he found the pale beautiful flesh disturbing enough to spoil his aim and he swore as his next shot flew wide.
Louise was shooting the latest model of the legendary 173 Winchester repeater, the original polished brass frame replaced by blued steel, and Zouga. knew that the modern centre-fire ammunition drove the heavy lead bullet with amazing power and accuracy.
She threw the stallion's rein over her left shoulder, and braced herself to fire from a standing position, leaning forward to absorb the recoil of the Winchester, and let her first shot fly.
She shot in the American style, throwing the rifle to her shoulder and firing in the same movement, not holding her aim nor giving the barrel time to wander. It was fine shooting.
"One hit to missis Sint John," yelled the steward. But the crash of the shot had startled Shooting Star and he reared wildly and backed off on his hind legs, heaving at the reins that were looped over Louise's shoulder, jerking her over backwards so that her second shot flew in a long spurt of powder smoke towards the sky; and then she was down on her back, being dragged away, her skirts tangled about her legs, and the Winchester rifle was flung from her hand.
The stallion came down on his forelegs again. One hoof, sharp as a woodman's axe, grazed the tender spot at the nape of Louise's neck, just below the thick plait of dark hair, leaving an angry pink blaze on the pale skin but not breaking it.
Zouga felt the sweat on his throat turn so cold that he could not swallow. He swung Tom around to head off the stallion.
For unholy seconds Louise's body was hidden by flying dust and trampling hooves; Zouga tried to shout to her ,to let the horse go, but his voice had choked, and then abruptly Louise was on her knees.
She was facing Shooting Star, clinging stubbornly to his reins with both hands, and when he reared again she used his strength to let him boost her to her feet.
"Steady!" she called to him. "Steady, I tell you., She was dusty and a tendril of dark hair had escaped the plait and hung into her eyes, but she was safe and very angry. Her voice crackled like breaking ice. Zouga's relief was immediate, but he mocked her as he swung Tom back to the firing line for his last target.
"I advise you to have that animal properly trained, madam."
"To hell with you, Major Ballantyne!"she told him in the same tone as she had quelled her mount. Somehow the oath on her lips was not shocking at all, but strangely titillating.
Zouga gave Tom a few seconds to settle and regulate his breathing, and then swung up the rifle, held a full bead on the distant white speck and touched off the shot.
"Four hits, you are free to ride on, Major," shouted the steward.
Louise was dragging Shooting Star by the reins to a wild plum tree, a tree with low and sturdy branches.
Swiftly she lashed the stallion's reins to a branch, and now she was running back holding her skirts up to just below the knee, and the stewards gawked at her ankles in the tight-fitting buttoned boots.
She snatched the Winchester from a clump of sansevieria and ran up towards the firing line, reloading as she came. Zouga could see that there were little blisters of perspiration across her forehead, and knew that she was badly shaken, for when she threw up the rifle she held the shot and the heavy weapon wavered unsteadily.
She lowered it, and her shoulders were trembling. She took two long deep breaths and then lifted the Winchester again, firing on the toss up.
"Hit!" yelled the steward.
Louise's lower lip was quivering and she bit down on it fiercely, and shot again.
Zouga slid the carbine back into its leather scabbard, touched the brim of his helmet to Louise in a cavalier salute. "Good shooting, ma'am."
He turned Tom's head away from the firing line.
As they reached the wild plum, Zouga leaned out from the saddle. Louise had tied Shooting Star's reins to the branch with a slippery fisherman, it was a sailor's knot, a quick-release knot for a fast getaway.
Zouga twitched the loose end and the knot fell apart, then he slapped Shooting Star across the cheek with his open hand. "Go on," he said. "Get out of it!" The stallion jerked his head, found that he was free and kicked his heels high.
Zouga looked back as he reached the next low fold in the plain.
The stallion was grazing head down, but even at that distance it was apparent that he was keeping a wary eye on the lonely figure that ran after him in hampering skirts. As soon as Louise came within arm's length of his bridle, he tossed up his head and trotted away to the next clump of grass, leaving her blundering behind.
"Come, Tom." He turned away, trying not to let his conscience trouble him. There were no rules, any rules was acceptable, but it still felt bad, until he reminded himself of the stakes. A shilling against all he owned and he set Tom to run in earnest.
Another mile and he glanced back, just in time to see Shooting Star and his rider come over the rise. They seemed to fly clear of the earth, borne along by the floating carpet of their own dust.
"Run! Tom! Run!" Zouga swept the hat off his head and slapped it against Tom's neck, goading him to his best speed.
Within another half mile Tom's shoulders were hot and slick with salt sweat. Ropes of saliva spilled from the corners of his lips and splattered onto Zouga's boots , but the yellow flag was in sight.
"Not far," Zouga called to him anxiously. "We must beat them to the flag."
He looked back. He could not believe they were so close.
The stallion's head was driving like a hammer to each stride, and his neck and shoulders were black with sweat. She had pushed him fearfully. Louise was driving him with her arms and the rhythmic force of her body.
Her hair was a wild tangle about her face, and her eyes were a blaze of blue.
Yet as she came up to them she straightened in the saddle, her chin lifted high, and she looked at Zouga coldly, expressionlessly, the way a queen might glance at an urchin running at the wheel of her coach.
Zouga lifted his right hand to salute her achievement.
it had been a tremendous run, to make up so much ground. He was turned slightly towards her, and her expression of cold disinterest lulled him for the vital instant that it took her to bring Shooting Star level with Tom's shoulder.
Zouga never saw the command, probably the toe of her boot on the far side of Shooting Star's heaving chest; he had certainly not expected a show horse to have learned the low tricks of a polo pony. Shooting Star's huge sweat-streaked shoulder crashed into Tom, taking him in the short ribs with a force that drove the air out of him in a belching grunt, and as he was spun aside Tom chopped desperately to keep from falling, twisting and dropping to his knees, his nose on the ground, too tired and taken too unawares to meet the power of that ferocious barge.
Zouga lost a stirrup and was thrown onto Tom's neck.
He clung desperately, feeling the saddle shift under the unequal transfer of weight; then Tom heaved again and Zouga went over, landing on his shoulders and the back of his neck.
He seemed to strike solid rock and blackness crushed down from the dome of his skull. When it cleared, he was standing again, swaying like a drunk, blinking uncertainly after the pounding stallion as he pulled away towards the last flag.
Zouga pulled Tom to his feet, and checked swiftly for strained sinew or broken bone, then threw himself back into the saddle.
"We're not beat yet," he told Tom "There are still the thorns."
Far ahead Shooting Star was making the turn around the last flag. From there Louise was free to make her way back to the finish line any way she wanted, but there were still the thorns.
Tom was winded, his chest shuddering with the effort of each laboured breath, and they reached the flag in an awkward jarring trot and made the turn. Ahead of them the thorns stretched in a solid green barrier. This was the last obstacle, and beyond it was a clear run to the finish.
A rider had a choice: go through the thorn, or ride wide.
"Which way did she go?" Zouga shouted at the stewards below the flag as he went past.
"She's gone for the gap," one of them yelled back, and then Zouga saw the little feather of dust a mile or more out on the right subsiding only slowly as the stallion sped away.
The thorn barrier petered out on the rocky slopes of the Magersfontein hills, and there was an open gap below the steep ironstone cliffs, that was where the stallion was aimed.
Grimly Zouga swung Tom around the flag and pointed him directly at the thorns. This route was almost two miles shorter, but he would need every inch of it. Yet he stopped Tom when they reached the edge of the thorns and let him breathe as he untied the heavy greatcoat from the pommel of his saddle and shrugged into it. He buttoned it high at the throat and felt the sweat burst out on his forehead as he pulled on the leather gauntlets to protect his hands.
"Let's go," he whispered, and lay flat on Tom's neck, as they crashed into the thorn.
The red-tipped hooked points of the thorns skidded over Zouga's thick felt hat with a rasping tearing sound, and tugged at the shoulders and skirts of the greatcoat.
The brush grew as high as a mounted man's head, the sturdy trunks just far enough apart to let a horse pass, but the barbed branches intertwined and exacted a cruel toll. However, Tom kept going, swinging and chopping from side to side; he dodged between the white barked trunks, ducking his head under the branches, his ears flat against his skull and his eyes closed to slits, maintaining just the right amount of momentum to snap the thorns off their triangular bases and showering both himself and Zouga with a confetti of feathery green leaves.
Every few seconds he snorted at the sting of thorn that had penetrated his tough shaggy hide.
Shooting Star's burnished skin was so thin and finely bred that the network of veins and arteries showed through it. The thorns would have ripped it to bloody tatters.
Zouga felt blood trickling down his own neck from where a thorn had nicked his ear, but he crouched lower and let Tom pick his own way through. "Poor Tom," he encouraged him. "Poor brave Tom." The horse whickered with the pain of the stinging red needles, but did not check his stride. Yet his breathing was easier now, the slower gait had helped him; and the sweat was drying in salty white crystals on his shoulders.
Then abruptly they burst out of the thorn onto the open plain. Zouga tore off the leather gauntlets and threw them away. He ripped at the buttons of the greatcoat and let it fly away, flapping like a great black crow in the wind of Tom's gallop, and then he stood high in the stirrups and shaded his eyes with the brim of his hat.
Swiftly he searched the open ground, but it was empty as far as he could see. the tiny specks of colour in the distance: women's dresses and the gay bunting that marked the finish. His heart bounded with relief, and under him Tom lunged into a clumsy gallop.
Still standing in the stirrups, Zouga looked towards the line of hills out on his right hand, and he saw them.
The stallion had turned the far end of the thorn barrier where it ran into the hills and was coming down the rocky slope towards the level ground in a dangerous scramble.
The tiny figure on his back was being thrown about brutally. One instant she seemed to be on his neck, the next she was flung back onto his haunches, as Shooting Star plunged and heaved to keep his balance.
"We have them now, Tom. There it is. There is the line, right under your nose." Zouga pointed his head.
"They cannot catch us now. Go, old man, go!" Tom's hooves cracked on the hard earth like the beat of a joyous drummer. The crossing of the thorns had been cruel work, but it had rested him and he was pushing hard now.
"Waie hole!" Zouga called to him, and Tom flicked his ears reproachfully. He had seen it before Zouga had, and he jinked around the burrow neatly, while the heads of the curious little ground squirrels bobbed out of the earth as they passed.
The ground was rotten with their warrens, but Tom barely checked his gallop, swinging to avoid the mounds of freshly-turned earth, or occasionally stretching out to step over an entrance hole.
The ground squirrels were almost indistinguishable from their northern cousins, except for the stripe down their furry backs and their terrestrial habit. They stood on their hind legs, like small groups of spectators at the entrance of each warren, their expressions comically astonished and their long bushy tails curled over their backs as Tom pounded past them.
Zouga looked over his shoulder. Shooting Star was off the steep slope of the hills, down onto the open plain, and it was apparent that he was burning the last reserves of his great strength, coming on in a blazing run, driving with his forelegs, and then bunching up his sweat drenched hindquarters to hurl himself into the next stride. Louise was pushing him with her arms, like a washerwoman working over the scrubbing board, but she was too far behind for Zouga to see the expression on her face.
Much too far behind, half a mile behind, and there was less than a mile to run to the line of gaily coloured bunting that marked the finish.
Zouga could clearly see the crowds on each side of the posts, thick as bees at the entrance to the hive, and others were running for the wagons to join them.
He could hear the faint pop of gunfire, see the little spurts of gunsmoke jumping up above the heads of the crowd as his supporters fired into the air in jubilation.
Soon he would hear their voices, catch the sound of their cheers, even above the beat of Tom's hooves.
It was all over. He had won. He had won back his claims, the cherished image of the falcon god, and the five thousand pounds with which he could take his family away to a new life. He had taken on the gods of chance and won.
He had only one regret, that the courage of the horse and rider behind him had been in vain. Careful not to unbalance Tom's heavy unlovely gallop, he looked back under his own arm.
By God, she had not yet accepted defeat. She was driving with all her strength and all her heart, pushing the horse as hard as she pushed herself, coming on so swiftly that Zouga glanced uneasily over Tom's pricked ears to reassure himself as to the proximity of the finish line. No, there was no chance, even at that tremendous speed, Shooting Star could never catch them.
Already he could hear the voices of the crowd, make out their individual faces, even recognize Pickering, the chief
steward, on his seat on the wagon, and beside him Rhodes" unmistakable bulk and the mop of unruly hair.
With him to witness it, Zouga's triumph was complete.
He turned for the last time to look back at Shooting Star, just in time to see him fall. It had been much too fast, too uncontrolled, that wild gallop across ground rotten with squirrel warrens. Shooting Star's front legs went from under him. Zouga imagined he could hear the bone break, like the crack of a pistol shot, and the huge horse went down from full gallop, shoulder first, neck twisted around in an agonized contortion'like that of a dying flamingo; dust flew up in a cloud, blanketing them, and above it the stallion's hooves kicked spasmodically, convulsively, and then sagged.
The pale beige dust cloud drifted aside, revealing the tragic tangle of horse and rider. Shooting Star lay on his side and, as Zouga reined in and swung Tom's nose back the way he had come, the great stallion made a feeble effort to lift his head off the ground and then let it fall back weakly.
Louise's body had been flung clear. She lay curled like a sleeping child on the bare earth, very still, very small.
"Ha, Tom, ha!"Zouga urged him to greater speed. He was shocked at the sense of utter desolation that assailed him as he galloped back to where she lay. There was something so final, so terribly chilling in her stillness, in the complete relaxation, the lifelessness of that tiny crumpled body.
"Please God," Zouga spoke aloud, his throat seared by dust and thirst and dread. "Please don't let it be."
He imagined the lovely delicate neck twisted at an impossible angle against the shattered vertebrae. He imagined the awful bloodless depression in the delicate dome of her skull; he imagined those huge dark eyes, open and staring, the inner glow fading, he imagined, oh God, he imagined, Then he was kicking his feet clear of the stirrups and jumping down even while Tom was at full gallop, stumbling to keep his balance and then running to where she lay.
Louise uncurled her body and rolled lightly to her feet.
"Come, darling, up darling," she called to Shooting Star, as she ran to him. The stallion lunged once, twice and then he was standing, head up.