by Wilbur Smith
Did you get him, Pa? Manfred yelled excitedly. He had heard the firing.
Yes. Lothar yanked him down from the mule's back. He's lying just beyond the rise. Lothar checked the mule's head halter. It was new and strong, but he clipped an extra length of rope on to the iron chin ring and put two men on each rope. Then carefully he blindfolded the mule with a strip of canvas.
All right. Let's see how he takes it. The men on the head halter dragged on it with their concerted weight, but the mule dug in his hooves, mutinying against the blindfold, and would not budge.
Lothar went round behind him, taking care to keep out of the way of his back hooves, and twisted the mule's tail.
Still the animal stood like a rock. Lothar leaned over and bit him at the root of the tail, sinking his teeth into the soft tender skin, and the mule let fly with both back hooves in a head-high kick.
Lothar bit him again, and he capitulated and trotted forward towards the ridge, but as he reached it the light breeze shifted and the mule filled both nostrils with the fresh hot smell of lion.
The scent of lion has a remarkable effect on all other animals, domestic or wild, even on exotics from an environment where it is impossible that either they or even their remote ancestors could possibly ever have had contact with a lion.
Lothar's father had always selected his hunting dogs by offering the litter of puppies a green wet lion skin to sniff.
Most of the pups would howl with terror and stumble away with their tails tucked up between their hind legs. A very few pups, not more than one in twenty, nearly always bitches would stand, albeit with every hair on their bodies erect and small growls shaking them from tail to tip of quivering nostrils. These were the dogs he kept.
Now the mule smelt the lion and went berserk. The men on the head ropes were hauled off their feet as it reared and whinnied, and Lothar ducked out from under its lashing hooves. Then it burst into a ponderous gallop and dragged the four handlers, stumbling and falling and shouting, half a mile over thorn scrub and through deep waterworn dongas, before at last it stopped in a cloud of its own dust, sweating and trembling, its flanks heaving with terror.
They dragged him back again, the blindfold firmly in place, but the moment he smelled the carcass again the entire performance was repeated, though this time he only managed a gallop of a few hundred yards before exhaustion and the weight of four men brought him up short.
Twice more they led him back to the dead lion and twice more he bolted, each time for a shorter distance, but finally he stood, trembling in all four legs, and sweating with terror and fatigue as they lifted the carcass onto his back and tried to lash the lion's paws under his chest. That was too much.
Another copious flood of nervous sweat drenched the mule's body, and he reared and bucked and kicked until the carcass slid off his back in a heap.
They wore him down, and after an hour of struggling, the mule stood at last, shaking piteously and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows, but with the dead lion securely lashed upon his back.
When Lothar took the lead rope and tugged upon it, the mule stumbled along meekly behind him, following him down towards the bend in the river.
From the top of one of the low wooded koppies Lothar looked down across the Swakop river to the roofs and the church spire of the village beyond. The Swakop made a wide bend, and in the elbow directly below there were three small green pools hemmed in with yellow sandbanks. The river flowed only in the rieperioer rain.
They were watering the horses at the pools, bringing them down from the stockades of thorn branches on the bank to drink before closing them in for the night. The count had been right, the army buyers had chosen the best. Lothar watched them avariciously through his binoculars. Desert bred, they were powerful animals, full of vigour as they frolicked and milled at the edge of the pool or rolled in the sand with their legs kicking in the air.
Lothar switched his attention to the drovers, and counted five of them, all coloured troopers in casual khaki uniform, and he looked for white officers in vain.
They could be in camp, he muttered and focused the glasses on the cluster of brown army tents beyond the horse stockades.
There was a low whistle from behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, Hendrick was signalling from the foot of the kopje. Lothar slid off the skyline and then scrambled down the slope. The mule, his blood-soaked burden still on his back, was tethered in the shade. He had become almost resigned to it, though every now and again he gave a spontaneous shudder and shifted his weight nervously. The men were lying under the sparse branches of the thorn trees, eating bully out of the cans and Pig John stood up as Lothar reached him.
You are late, Lothar accused him, and seizing the front of his leather vest he pulled him close and sniffed his breath.
Not a drop, Master, Pig John whined. I swear on my sister's virginity. That is a mythical beast. Lothar released him, and glanced down at the sack at Pig John's feet.
TWelve bottles. just like you said. Lothar opened the sack and took out a bottle of the notorious Cape Smoke. The neck was sealed with wax and the brandy was a dark poisonous brown when he held it to the light.
What did you find out in the village? He returned the bottle to the sack.
There are seven horse handlers at the camp I counted five. 'Seven. Pig John was definite and Lothar grunted.
What about the white officers? They rode out towards Otjiwaronga yesterday, to buy more horses. It will be dark in an hour. Lothar glanced at the sun.
Take the sack and go to the camp. What shall I tell them? 'Tell them you are selling, cheap, and then give them a free taste. You are a famous har, tell them anything. What if they don't drink? Lothar laughed at the improbability but didn't bother to answer. I will move after moonrise, when it clears the treetops. That will give you and your brandy four hours to soften them up. The sack clinked as Pig John slung it over his shoulder.
Remember, Pig John, I want you sober or I'll have you dead, and I mean it. Does Master think I am some kind of animal, that I can't take a drink like a gentleman? Pig John demanded and drawing himself up marched out of the camp with affronted dignity.
From his look-out Lothar watched Pig John cross the dry sandbanks of the Swakop and trudge up the far side under his sack. At the stockade the guard challenged him and Lothar watched through the glasses as they talked, until at last the coloured trooper set his carbine aside and peered into the neck of the sack that Pig John held open for him.
Even at that distance and in the deepening dusk, Lothar saw the flash of the guard's white teeth as he grinned with delight and turned to call his companions from the tented encampment. Two of them came out in their underclothes, and a long heated discussion ensued with a great deal of gesticulation and shoulder slapping and head shaking, until Pig John cracked the wax seal on one of the bottles and handed it to them. The bottle passed quickly from one to the other, and each of them pointed the base briefly at the sky like a bugler sounding the charge and then gasped and grinned through watering eyes. Finally, Pig John was led like an honoured guest into the encampment, lugging his sack, and disappeared from Lothar's view.
The sun set and night fell and Lothar remained on the ridge. Like a yachtsman he was intensely aware of the strength and direction of the night breeze as it switched erratically. An hour after dark it settled down into a steady warm stream on the back of Lothar's neck.
Let it hold, Lothar murmured, and then whistled softly, the cry of a scops owlet. Hendrick came almost at once and Lothar indicated the wind.
Cross the river well upstream and circle out beyond the camp. Not too close. Then turn back and keep the wind in your face. At that moment there was a faint shout from across the river and they both looked up. The camp-fire in front of the tents had been built up until the flames roared high enough to lick the under branches of the camel-thorn trees and silhouetted against them were the dark figures of the coloured troopers.
what the hell do you think they ar
e doing? Lothar wondered. 'Dancing or fighting? By now they don't know themselves, Hendrick chuckled.
They were reeling around the fire, colliding and clinging together, then separating, collapsing in the dust and crawling on their knees, or with enormous effort heaving themselves to their feet only to stand swaying with legs braced apart and then collapse again. One of them was stripped naked, his thin yellow body gleaming with sweat as he pirouetted wildly and then fell into the fire, to be dragged out by the heels by a pair of his companions, all three of them screeching with laughter.
Time for you to go. Lothar slapped Hendrick's shoulder.
Take Manie with you and let him be your horse holder. Hendrick started back down the slope but paused as Lothar A called softly after him, Manie is in your charge. You'll answer for him with your own life. Hendrick did not reply but disappeared into the night.
Half an hour later Lothar glimpsed them crossing the pale sandbanks of the river, a dark shapeless movement in the starlight, and then they were gone into the scrub beyond.
The horizon lightened and the stars in the east paled before the rising moon, but in the camp across the river the drunken gyrations of the troopers had now descended into swinish inertia. Through the glasses Lothar could make Out bodies, scattered haphazard like casualties on the battlefield, and one of them looked very much like Pig John, although Lothar couldn't be certain for he lay face down in the shadow on the far side of the fire.
If it's him, he's a dead man, Lothar promised and stood up. It was time to move at last, for the moon was clear of the horizon, horned and glowing like a horseshoe from the blacksmith's forge.
Lothar picked his way down the slope, and the mule snorted and blew through his nostrils, still standing miserably under his dreadful burden.
Almost over now. Lothar stroked his forehead. You've done well, old fellow. He loosed the head halter, adjusted the Mauser slung over his shoulder and led the mule around the side of the kopje and down the bank to the river.
There was no question of a stealthy approach, not with that great pale animal and his swaying load. Lothar unslung the rifle and rimmed a cartridge into the breech as they plodded through the sand of the riverbed and he watched the line of trees on the bank ahead, even though he expected no challenge.
The camp-fire had died down, and there was complete silence until they climbed the bank and Lothar heard the stamp of a hoof and the soft fluttering breath of one of the animals in the stockade ahead. The breeze was behind Lothar, steady still, and suddenly there was a shrill unhappy whinny.
That's it, get a good whiff of it. Lothar led the mule towards the stockade.
Now there was the trample of hooves and the sound of restless animals as they began to mill and jostle one another.
Alarm transmitted by the rank smell of the bleeding lion carcass was spreading infectiously through the herd. A horse whinnied in terror, and immediately others reared in panic.
Lothar could see their heads above the thorn-bush wall of the stockade, manes flying in the moonlight, front hooves lashing out wildly.
Against the windward wall of the stockade Lothar held the mule, and then cut the rope that held the lion to its back. The carcass slid over and hit the ground, the wind from its lungs was driven up the dead throat with a low belching roar and the animals on the far side of the brush wall surged and screamed and began to swirl around the stockade in a living whirlpool of horse-flesh.
Lothar stooped and split the lion's belly from the crotch of the back legs to the sternum of the ribs, driving his blade deeply so that it slashed through the bladder and guts, and instantly the stench was thick and rank.
The horse herd was in chaos. He could hear them crashing into the far wall of the stockade as they attempted to escape from the awful scent. Lothar lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aiming only feet over the maddened horses, and emptied the magazine. The shots crashed out in quick succession, the muzzle-flashes lighting the stockade, and the herd in terrified concert burst through the wall of the stockade, pouring through it in a dark river, their manes tossing like foam as they galloped away into the night, heading downwind to where Hendrick waited with his men.
Hurriedly Lothar tethered the mule, and reloading the rifle as he ran, headed for the dying camp-fire. One of the troopers, aroused by the escaping horses even from his drunken stupor, was on his feet, staggering determinedly towards the stockade.
The horses, he was screaming. Come on you drunken thunders! We have to stop the horses! He saw Lothar. Help me! The horses, Lothar lifted the butt of the Mauser under his chin. The trooper's teeth clicked together and he sat down in the sand and then slowly toppled over backwards again. Lothar stepped over him and ran forward.
Pig John! he called urgently. Where are you? There was no reply and he went past the fire to the inert figure he had seen from the lookout. He rolled it over with his foot, and Pig John looked up at the moon with sightless eyes and a tranquil smile on his wrinkled yellow face.
Up! Lothar kicked him with a full swing of the boot. Pig John's smile did not waver. He was far past any pain. All right, I warned you! Lothar worked the Mauser's bolt and flicked over the safety-catch with his thumb. He put the muzzle of the rifle to Pig John's head. If he was handed over to the police alive it would take only a few strokes of the hippo-hide sjambok whip to get Pig John talking. Though he did not know the full details of the plan, he knew enough to ruin their chances and to put Lothar on the wanted list for horse-theft and the destruction of army property. He took up the slack in the trigger of the Mauser.
It's too good for him, he thought grimly. He should be flogged to death. But his finger relaxed, and he swore at himself for his own foolishness as he flipped the safety-catch and ran back to fetch the mule.
Even though Pig John was a skinny little man, it took all of Lothar's strength to swing his relaxed rubbery body over the mule's back. He hung there like a piece of laundry on the drying line, arms and legs dangling on opposite sides.
Lothar leapt up behind him, whipped the mule into his top gait, a laboured lumbering trot, and steered him directly down the wind.
After a mile Lothar thought he must have missed them, and slowed the mule just as Hendrick stepped out of the moon shadows ahead of him.
How goes it? How many did you get? Lothar called anxiously, and Hendrick laughed.
So many we ran out of halters. once each of his men had captured one of the escaped horses, he had gone up on its bare back and cut off the bunches of fleeing animals, turning them and holding them while Manfred ran in and slipped the halters over their heads.
Twenty-six! Lothar exulted as he counted the strings of roped horses. We'll be able to pick and choose. He tempered his own jubilation. All right, we'll move out right away.
The army will be after us as soon as they can get troops up here. He slipped the halter off the mule's head and slapped his rump. Thank you, old fellow, he said. You can get on back home. The mule accepted the offer with alacrity and actually managed to gallop the first hundred yards of his homeward journey.
Each of them picked a horse and mounted bareback with a string of three or four loose horses behind him, and Lothar led them back towards the rock shelter in the hills.
At dawn they paused briefly while Lothar checked over each of the stolen horses. Two had been injured in the melee in the stockade and he turned them loose. The others were of such fine quality and condition that he could not choose between them though they had many more than they required.
While they were sorting the horses Pig John regained consciousness and sat up weakly. He muttered prayers to his ancestors and Hottentot gods for a release from his suffering and then vomited a painful gush of vile brandy.
You and I still have business to settle, Lothar promised him unsmilingly, then turned to Hendrick. We'll take all these horses. We are certain to lose some in the desert. Then he raised his right arm in the cavalry command: Move out! They reached the rock shelter a little before noon, but they
paused only to load the waiting pack-saddles onto the spare horses and then each of them chose a mount and saddled up. They led the horses down the hill and watered them, allowing them to drink their fill.
How much of a start do we have? Hendrick asked.
The coloured troopers can do nothing without their white officers and it might take them two or three days to get back. They will have to telegraph Windhoek for orders, and then they will have to make up a patrol. I'd say three days at least, more likely four or five. We can go a long way in three days, Hendrick said with satisfaction.
Nobody can go further, Lothar agreed. It was a fact not a boast.
The desert was his dominion. Few white men knew it as well as he, and none better.
Shall we mount up? Hendrick asked.
One more chore. Lothar took the spare leather reins out of his saddle-bag and looped them over his right wrist with the brass buckles hanging to his ankles as he crossed to where Pig John sat miserably in the shade of the riverbank with his face buried in his hands. in his extremity he did not hear Lothar's tread in the soft sand until he stood over him.
I promised you, Lothar told him flatly, and shook out the heavy leather thongs.
Master, I could not help it, shrieked Pig John and he tried to scramble to his feet.
Lothar swung the thongs and the brass buckles blurred in a bright arc in the sunlight. The blow caught Pig John around the back and the buckles snapped around his ribs and gouged out a groove in his flesh below the armpit.
Pig John howled. They forced me. They made me drink The next blow knocked him off his feet. He kept screaming, although now the words were no longer coherent, and the leathers cracked on his yellow skin, the weals rising in thick shiny ridges and turning purple-red as ripe grape-skins.
The sharp buckles shredded his shirt as though it had been torn off him by lion's claws, and the sand clotted his blood into wet balls as it dribbled into the riverbed.
He stopped screaming at last and Lothar stood back panting and wiped the wet red leather thongs on a saddle cloth and looked at the faces of his men. The beating had been for them as much as for the man curled at his feet. They were wild dogs and they understood only strength, respected only cruelty.