by W E Johns
The landscape on this side of the lake was typical ‘bush’ country: that is, perfectly flat with frequent patches of scrub about six feet high. There was an occasional thorn tree, spaced in the manner of an orchard. These trees were all exactly alike, about thirty feet high. The scrub was all the same sort. Generally speaking it was possible to see a hundred yards. This meant that it was easy stalking country. Biggles also perceived it was easy country in which to get lost, and he was glad he had Charlie with him, since he intended taking a line a little way back from the lake, which would therefore be out of sight.
He did not have far to go, less than a mile, ‘still-hunting’ all the way: that is, moving slowly and quietly from cover to cover. Charlie, having been a gun-bearer, understood the business, and made no more noise than a cloud floating in the sky. It was he who spotted the roan antelope. Taking a quick pace forward he touched Biggles on the arm and pointed to a pair of curved horns rising above the rough grass. The animal was lying down, perhaps waiting for dusk to go to the lake.
The shape of the horns, and the white markings round the eyes, which he could just see, told Biggles the creature was a roan, an animal which, standing about five feet tall at the shoulder and carrying plenty of meat, would suit his purpose admirably. Lying down it did not offer a clear shot, but it promised an easy stalk.
Suddenly, although he had not moved, the roan sprang to its feet and stood staring, not in the direction of Biggles as would have been the case had it caught the human taint, but at something at an angle. It gathered its hind legs under it ready to bolt. It was now or never, for once started the animal would be out of sight in a moment. Broadside on it was an easy shot.
Biggles put out a hand for the rifle. Charlie was ready. A quick aim and Biggles fired. To his great satisfaction the roan dropped as if stone dead. The sound of the report had hardly died away when there arose from the grass, in the direction in which the antelope had been staring, a lion. This at once explained the roan’s behaviour. The lion had obviously been stalking it. Biggles of course had no idea the lion was there. Nor had Charlie.
The lion, a magnificent beast but without much of a mane, stared fixedly at the two men for some seconds, flicking its tail. Then, after a low growl, it started walking towards the spot where the antelope had fallen.
Biggles slipped in a fresh cartridge, then hesitated. He had no wish to interfere with, much less kill, a lion, an animal for which he had no use. On the other hand he was not prepared to see the king of beasts take possession of the roan. There would be no chance of another. All game in the area would have been disturbed by the sound of the shot. The lion, taking no notice of the two men, although it must have seen them clearly, walked on towards the kill. Charlie stood like a rock.
Biggles shouted. The lion stopped, growled, and sank into the dry grass, almost disappearing from sight. That it was still looking at them was revealed by the angle of its ears, the dark tips of which could just be seen. At this juncture it was not more than fifty yards away.
Biggles decided there was only one thing to do if he was not to lose the roan. With his eyes on the lion and rifle at the ready in case the beast should charge he started walking towards the antelope, which hadn’t moved after it had fallen. The lion did not stir. It was still watching. Biggles reached the roan. It was dead. He sat on its haunches and lit a cigarette to consider the situation; for the question that now arose was what to do next. The roan was too heavy for the two of them to carry. That was out of the question. To leave it lying there would mean the lion would have it; perhaps drag it away; perhaps start devouring it on the spot. The alternative seemed to be to try to drive the lion away, a course that certainly did not appeal to him. The lion had not moved. Charlie stood by, watching, impassive.
Without taking his eyes off the lion Biggles said to him: ‘What’s the best thing to do?’
The old soldier had no doubt about it. ‘Shoot lion.’
It seemed to Biggles this might be more easily said than done. ‘I don’t want to shoot the lion.’
‘Give me rifle. I shoot.’
This proposal appealed to Biggles even less. Wherefore he said: ‘You run to the Zinns and tell them the meat is here. If they want it they must fetch it. Tell them to make a great noise as they come. Then the lion will go away. I’ll stay here and guard the meat. Make haste or it will be dark before you get back.’
This, to Biggles, seemed a reasonable scheme. The Zinns would have to fetch the meat anyway. He had no intention of butchering the antelope where it lay. He felt confident the lion would not attack him. Had it intended doing that it would have done so already, he thought.
That the plan did not work out as anticipated was probably due to the fact that Charlie took his orders literally. He went off at a run.
The temptation to chase something running away was evidently more than the lion could resist. In a flash it was on its feet and after him. Charlie saw it coming and swerved towards the nearest tree shouting: ‘Shoot, bwana, shoot.’
The choice of action no longer rested with Biggles. The nearest tree was some distance away and Charlie had no real hope of reaching it before he was pulled down. The lion offered a close shot, but it was running, which meant that the chance of hitting it in a vital spot was small. To wound the beast, unless the bullet had the luck to break a bone, would only make matters worse. As a last resort Biggles ran towards the lion shouting, hoping it would stop. It did, its tail flicking viciously, apparently unable to make up its mind which of the two men to go for. This was Biggles’ chance. He fired. The lion spun round biting at its shoulder. Biggles fired again. The lion fell, still struggling. Reloading, Biggles made a cautious approach and fired two more shots. That did it. The lion lay still.
Charlie turned back from the tree, beaming. ‘Good, bwana, good.’
Biggles wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Go and fetch the Zinns,’ he ordered, a trifle shakily. ‘I’ll wait by the meat or the vultures will have it.’ The ever-ready scavengers were already circling overhead.
Charlie ran off. Biggles returned to the roan. He didn’t go near the lion but for a while kept a watchful eye on it. Sitting on the dead antelope he lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.
Relief came sooner than he expected. There was a shout. He answered it. Ginger and Algy, both armed, appeared round a clump of thorn.
‘Where’s the lion?’ called Ginger. ‘Charlie told us about it.’
Biggles pointed.
Half an hour later, with a great noise of shouting, an excited crowd of Zinns appeared. While some of them amused themselves spearing the dead lion, their hereditary enemy, others quickly disembowelled and cut up the antelope. With gory loads on their shoulders the procession set off back to the village.
Biggles followed with the others. ‘I hope we don’t have to make a practice of this sort of thing,’ he remarked. Grinning, he went on: ‘I may not always be as lucky as I have been today. The Zinns have got their supper, but I don’t mind telling you there was a moment when I thought the lion was going to have his—off me.’
Bertie was waiting at the bungalow. He took Biggles’ rifle, and joining Charlie went on with the Zinns to their village. ‘See you tomorrow, chaps,’ he called back over his shoulder.
‘Fetch us if you need us,’ said Biggles. ‘One shot will bring us along. Three quick shots if it’s urgent.’
‘Fair enough,’ Bertie agreed, and went on his way.
‘You don’t think those toughs will have another try to get Grandpa?’ queried Ginger, dubiously, as they stood watching the retreating column.
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ answered Biggles. ‘What purpose could there be in that now? I imagine the original idea was to prevent him from talking to us. To kill him now wouldn’t prevent the others from talking. Well, that seems to be about all for today. Let’s go inside.’
CHAPTER 11
SHOTS AT DAWN
The absence of Bertie from the rest-house made it
necessary to reorganize the night guards, which Biggles insisted had to be maintained. Not that there was any argument about what was a common sense precaution against a surprise attack. The new arrangement was three single guards of three hours each, the man on duty to remain at, or near, the door of the bungalow, a position from which he would be able to keep an eye on the aircraft. With no one now in the compound there seemed no point in watching it.
Ginger took the first period, Biggles the second, and Algy the third. In this way everyone would get a fair spell of sleep.
When Biggles awoke Algy for his turn nothing had happened, except of course, the usual strange noises made by the various nocturnal creatures as they went about their business of hunting or drinking.
It was about five a.m., with everything silent and grey dawn just breaking through the mist which at that hour hung over the lake, when the shots, somewhat muffled by the murk, came from the direction of the village. Three shots. Fired in quick succession.
Ginger did not need Algy’s shout to awaken him. It so happened that he was already awake after a night made uncomfortable by mosquitoes, and was considering getting up to make tea as an excuse to warm himself, for the air at that time could be surprisingly chilly. By the third shot he was scrambling into his clothes.
‘I’ll go down,’ he told Biggles, who was doing the same thing.
‘You can’t go alone,’ rapped out Biggles, tersely. ‘We’d better both go in case it’s something serious. Algy, you stay and take care of things here. Get the machine on the water and start up. We may need it.’
Nothing more was said. Within two minutes of the shots being fired Biggles and Ginger were making the best time they could down the shore of the lake, sometimes walking quickly, and at others, where the going was good, breaking into a trot. Biggles carried a rifle and Ginger the shotgun.
Ginger was astonished by the amount of game about—animals which presumably had come to the water to drink their fill before the heat of the day. It was clear that the lake served a wide area. For the crocodiles that slithered into the water at their approach he was prepared, although he was shocked by the number of them, large and small. He wondered how any fish could survive. Dimly through the tenuous mist which still hung over the lake and its surroundings he saw parties of zebra, wildebeest and various deer and antelopes, scampering away. There was a pair of ostriches, but, fortunately perhaps, no dangerous game except a solitary old rhinoceros which, with a squeal and a snort, stuck up his tail and charged, luckily in the wrong direction, a common occurrence since the big beast has poor sight.
When the village came into sight, and by reason of the poor visibility they were then close to it, they saw Bertie on his knees by someone lying on the ground. This turned out to be Charlie. Behind them stood a group of Zinns holding their spears.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Biggles, crisply, running up.
By this time Charlie was trying to rise with Bertie holding him back.
‘Someone tried to get Charlie,’ explained Bertie. ‘A leopard-man, I think.’
‘Is he badly hurt?’
‘Not too badly, as far as I can make out. He’s a knife wound in the shoulder and what looks like a bunch of claw scratches on his chest.’
‘They’ll need antiseptic,’ decided Biggles quickly. ‘Claw wounds are rank poison. Ginger, run back and get the medicine chest. Bring it along in the machine. That’ll be the quickest way. I heard Algy start up as we came here.’
‘Okay.’ Ginger went off at a run.
‘What happened?’ Biggles asked Bertie, who, having made a wad of his handkerchief, was pressing it on the knife wound to stop the bleeding.
‘To tell the truth, old boy, I’m not altogether clear about it myself,’ answered Bertie. ‘All I can tell you is this. I was sitting on the old tree stump over there, thinking that as it was beginning to get light there was nothing to worry about, when I heard a shout. Coming round the huts at the double I saw two blokes rolling on the ground. At first I thought it was a man and a leopard. Before I could get to ‘em they’d broken apart, and one of ‘em, dragging a leopard skin which must have been torn off him in the struggle, was hoofing it down the lake. It was a native, one of the black lads from lower down I imagine. I let drive at him just as he was disappearing into the mist. I fired three times.’
‘We heard you. Did you hit him?’
‘Not with the first shot. I don’t know about the others. I was shooting blind into the fog.’
‘You haven’t been to see?’
‘No. I was too taken up with Charlie lying here. I was afraid he was a goner.’
‘He may be able to tell us more about it. As long as the knife didn’t reach a lung I don’t think the wounds are serious. Stand by. I’ll be back.’ So saying Biggles strode off down the lake.
He hadn’t far to go. Inside a hundred yards he came upon the body of a negro lying on his face. He was dead. A trickle of blood oozing from a spot in line with his heart showed why. Beside him lay a piece of leopard skin. On his right hand was a glove that had once been a leopard’s paw.
Biggles walked back. ‘You got him,’ he told Bertie.
‘Dead?’
‘As mutton.’
Charlie was sitting up. Biggles beckoned to Grandpa, who he saw sitting near. ‘Charlie, ask him to tell some of the men to bring in the body. And the leopard skin. I’ve a camera in the machine,’ he went on, speaking to Bertie. ‘I’ll take a photo of him. It may be useful for evidence should anything be said about this nasty business.’
Charlie conveyed the message, and some Zinns went off, presently to return with the body of the dead negro. Biggles showed them where to put it. They can bury it when I’ve got the photo,’ he told Bertie. ‘What happened, Charlie?’
Charlie hadn’t much to tell. The story was simple. Watching the village he had seen the leopard-man coming, creeping towards the huts. He had stalked him and jumped on him hoping to take him prisoner; but in the struggle the man had knifed him. That was when he had shouted—the shout that had brought Bertie along. That was all. Charlie said he was sorry he hadn’t caught the man alive.
‘You should have shot him,’ said Biggles, grimly. ‘He was out for murder. You might have known he’d be armed.’
‘What was the feller’s idea, do you think?’ asked Bertie.
Biggles shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know—unless that gang of crooks are still trying to scare the daylights out of the Zinns in the hope that they’ll leave the district.’
Here the low roar of engines announced the arrival of the Gadfly. Ginger hadn’t bothered to take off, but appeared taxiing, skimming the tranquil water. Having run the machine to the muddy bank he got out carrying the Red Cross box that held the first-aid kit.
Biggles went to work, first dabbing the wounds with strong antiseptic and then bandaging them. The lotion must have stung but Charlie didn’t flinch. The knife wound, being a straight thrust, did not require stitches.
‘That’s about all we can do,’ said Biggles, when he had finished. ‘You’ll have to lie still for a bit, Charlie, to give the bleeding a chance to stop. Then we’ll take you along to the bungalow in the plane. You’ll be all right. Just a matter of keeping quiet for a day or two.’
‘Yes, bwana. Thank you, bwana.’
‘For Pete’s sake!’ exclaimed Ginger. ‘Look who’s here!’
Biggles looked up and saw the bearded white man from the enemy camp coming towards them. In the crook of his arm he carried a rifle. He was alone and walked without any attempt at concealment.
Nobody spoke as he walked up. The man looked at the dead negro, then at Charlie, bandaged, still sitting on the ground. ‘What’s been going on here?’ he inquired.
‘You should know,’ sneered Biggles. ‘Don’t try handing me that innocent stuff; it won’t work.’
‘I knew nothing about this. I was out after some meat, and hearing the shooting came along to see what was going on. I thought I might find you here.’<
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Biggles regarded the speaker with calculating eyes. ‘Do you seriously expect me to believe this?’
‘It’s the truth. Please yourself whether or not you believe it.’
‘I should arrest you for attempted murder.’
The man jerked a thumb at Charlie. ‘If you mean this I was a mile away when it happened.’
‘You may have been, but you sent this leopard-man here.’
‘I did not. I tell you I knew nothing about it.’
Ginger was puzzled. The man seemed to be speaking with earnest conviction. Biggles must have thought the same, for he looked hard at the man’s face.
‘As a matter of fact,’ went on the man casually, ‘I was coming along this morning to see you, anyhow.’
Biggles stared. ‘You were coming to see me?’
‘That’s right.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To tell you I was getting out.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can get packed up.’
‘Is that why you sent one of your cut-throats into the village?’
‘I didn’t send him. I’ve already told you that.’
‘Then who did?’
‘That’s not for me to say.’
‘Your partner?’
‘Could be.’
‘It must have been one of you.’
‘It might have been N’Bulu, on his own account.’
‘Who’s N’Bulu?’
‘That witch-doctor you kicked. He won’t forgive you for that.’
‘You brought him here and that makes you responsible for his actions.’
‘I didn’t bring him.’
‘Then who did?’
‘Batoun.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘My partner.’
‘You must have agreed.’
‘I was all against it. Batoun seems to get on with witch-doctors, but I don’t. They’re dangerous. I wouldn’t trust one a yard. But Batoun has a way with natives.’
The furrows in Biggles’ forehead deepened. ‘You’ve changed your tune since the last time I saw you.’