But now he was not following the trail. He knew that dirt roads wound through the forests, and that the authorities would be hot on their heels today.
Twenty-three miles … The best man, with a good night’s rest behind him, could cover twenty-five miles in a day in these mountains. He did not have a night’s rest behind him.
But the animals were surviving. Frightened, tired, sore, but they were okay.
But their feet … The big cats’ pads had covered nothing but a few square yards of sawdust for years, the gorillas the same. Their feet, built for climbing trees, were almost as soft as a city human’s.
Davey heaved himself up and looked around. Sultan lay on his side, legs outstretched, eyes closed, big-striped flanks heaving in the sunlight. Davey touched his paw; in an instant his head was up, eyes open; then he saw who it was. ‘Velvet paws, Sultan …’
The tiger drew in his big claws. Davey turned the paw over and looked at it.
The pad was swollen, clean. He had been licking it, to soothe it. Davey examined it closely. Through the soreness he could see a new toughness forming. Sultan was watching him. Davey looked at the big, beautiful face, and gave an exhausted smile, stretched out his hand and stroked the top of the tiger’s head. His eyes were burning: for Mama, for Queenie, for Daisy, for the two others left lying dead at Devils Fork, for the horror and heartbreak of it all.
‘Down Max Patch Road there’re some farms. We must get some chickens. These cats have got to eat. So have we.’
Big Charlie was on his back, eyes closed. He dragged his hands down his face.
‘I’ll get some. But tomorrow night we cross the Pigeon anyway. Then we’ll have the gun.’
Big Charlie knew what Davey was thinking. ‘No good worrying about Smoky, Davey. He’s more or less where he belongs.’
Davey nodded distractedly. ‘But he’s wounded.’
‘Nothin’s broken though. He can live with that lead. Plenty of animals in these woods with lead in them.’
Davey chewed his lip and sighed. It was true.
‘Sam’s okay too, Davey. He’ll track us down.’
‘Not if he tries to bring Smoky in. He’ll never get a bear through that town now.’
‘Maybe at night.’
‘Sam won’t have the sense to wait for dark. He’ll be worried. And excited.’
‘He won’t bring Smoky in. That bear’ll hide or climb a tree or somethin’, and Sam’ll give up and come on alone. Like you say, he’ll be worried. So he’ll give up on Smoky.’
‘I’ve never seen him give up before.’
‘He’s never had a job this big before.’
‘I hope you’re right … I just hope to God you’re right.’
But behind his closed eyes Davey saw his Sam trying to herd big black Smoky through Hot Springs, the bear blundering off all over the place, and Sam trying to head him off. And Smoky would panic and go running through people’s gardens, there would be a hue and cry, and everybody would grab their guns. He almost heard the hollering and the blasting gunfire, and he could see his brave, faithful Sam lying in the street with the blood running out of him while the townsfolk of Hot Springs gathered around his body, gaping and grinning, prodding him and arguing about which of them had killed him. He screwed his eyes tight shut and prayed. Please God make him come at night.
Exhausted, he got to his feet and wiped his wrist across his eyes.
‘All right. Let’s go.’
Charlie heaved himself up. The big cats were on their feet, the gorillas pent, the chimpanzees staring; the bears were watching him, ready to go, to run, or to flee. Big Charlie said gently: ‘Ride Rajah, Davey, you’re finished.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m all right. I’ll see they follow. They’ll follow anyway.’
Davey turned and plodded toward Rajah. The elephant watched him, blinking. Davey patted his trunk.
‘Lift, Rajah.’
Rajah curled his rough, wrinkled trunk behind Davey’s knees and lifted him up onto his neck. He was happier with Davey on his back; he felt safer.
Davey looked down at the animals. Dumbo shuffled solemnly into position behind Rajah and took his tail in his trunk tip; Jamba turned to Clever and gave an imperative grunt that made him shuffle closer to her. Then she picked up his trunk tip in hers, pulled him up to Dumbo’s rear, and impatiently wrapped Clever’s trunk around Dumbo’s tail. Davey gave a soft whistle, and Rajah started plodding.
Off they shuffled through the trees, a big ragged line of animals, with Sally and Big Charlie in the rear.
At that same time, deep in the forest on the other side of French Broad River, Smoky sat on his haunches, trembling, shaggy face averted, but watching Sam out the corner of his eye. Sam stood in front of him, panting, wolf’s eyes piercing. The fur on his face was scored with two stripes of blood where Smoky had swiped him.
Sam suddenly whimpered in frustration and darted to Smoky’s side and lunged at his rump, but Smoky whirled around, his paw ready to swipe, and Sam jumped backward.
For three hours it had been like this. Sometimes Smoky turned and ran, crashing through the undergrowth, and Sam raced after him to head him off. Then Smoky stopped and swiped at him. Sam had tried to nip his shaggy hindlegs, but Smoky whirled around and swiped. Every time he ran farther and farther away from the river. He understood very well that Sam was trying to chase him back, and he was not going to go. He did not know where he was going; he only knew he had to keep away from the horror of men.
Just then Smoky made another break for it. He lunged sideways suddenly and went galloping through the undergrowth. Sam went bounding after him, and Smoky threw himself at a tree. With an agonized bound, his claws wrapped around the trunk. He started to scramble frantically up it, and Sam got him.
Sam hurled himself at Smoky’s rump and got a fierce mouthful of fur just before the bear got out of reach, but Smoky roared and clung on tight. Sam snarled through his mouthful of fur, his forepaws off the ground, hanging on grimly and shaking his head, trying to pull Smoky down out of the tree. Smoky held. Then he began to claw higher, desperately, his claws scrabbling and his wounded shoulder agonizing. Sam still was hanging on, whining. Smoky scrambled another foot higher, dragging Sam behind him. Sam’s whine turned to a muffled howl as he felt Smoky getting away from him forever. Smoky heaved himself two inches higher, and Sam came falling down with a thump and a big mouthful of fur. Smoky scrambled gratefully up the tree. He clawed his way onto a branch and clung. Sam spat out the fur and sneezed, and began to prance around the trunk, looking for a way up it, barking and wagging his tail in anxiety. Smoky glowered down at him. Then Sam remembered he had to keep quiet. He whimpered and laid back his ears, staring up into the boughs again, ears cocked.
Sam did not know what to do. Neither did Smoky.
Through the dense shade of the forest the other animals ran, the big elephant in front with Davey crouched on his neck, his face bruised and bleeding where branches had caught him.
Miles back, Timmons, Milton, and Dawes of the Wildlife Department picked their way through the undergrowth, following the trampled spoor of the herd, and behind them toiled Professor Ford and the rest of the team. In two other locations, other trackers, backed up by troopers, worked slowly up the scattered dirt tracks that wound higgledy-piggledy through the forest. And up through the steep undergrowth crept a number of the sporting men of Appalachia with their hound dogs.
It was three o’clock when a tracker found the remnant of spoor crossing the dirt track. He stared at it, like Robinson Crusoe discovering the footprint on his desert island; his guts turned liquid and he grabbed his walkie-talkie.
‘Party One, this is Party Three reporting spoor found on Little Roaring Fork Road. Do you read me, over?’
Jonas Ford snatched the radio from Milton.
‘Where’s it headed?’
‘Southwest, over.’
Ford grabbed the map from Milton. Everybody was staring, astonished that wh
at was meant to happen had actually happened.
‘Party One calling Mission base camp—send a helicopter to fetch us immediately.’
twenty-six
There were still almost two hours of daylight left.
Davey knew he should not stop yet, but they had to. Not so much for the animals, not for Charlie, but for himself. He was exhausted.
Rajah was tired too, now. When he got tired, Rajah began to groan, telling the world he was going to quit, and if pushed, he just sat down in protest. Even Frank Hunt knew he had to stop cracking the whip when Rajah took it into his head to sit down.
Davey lay on his back, chest heaving. His legs were trembling, his gut a sick hollow. He could not feel his hunger through the exhaustion, but he was weakening from not enough food. He badly needed to fuel his lean body. That was probably why Big Charlie could still keep going—he carried fat. Davey could hardly believe the stamina of the man.
Half a mile away down the mountainside was an abandoned homestead. The wilderness had taken it over, but the orchard was still bearing small fruit. Big Charlie was there, collecting anything edible he could find.
Davey lay, trying to rest so he could get up and stand guard, trying not to worry about the animals, not to feel the guilt, trying not to feel grief for Queenie and Smoky, trying not to worry about Sam. What was important now was to rest, to try to store up some strength. The big cats could hold out, they were all strong animals. They were all strong except him and Sally.
Oh, poor old Sally …
He did not look at her, but he knew what she was doing—lying in the mud of the stream, taking short groaning breaths, eyes glazed. Sally was almost at the end of her tether.
She would not last more than one more day before she just would have to quit: before she went lame, before her old heart gave in, before her intestines bust. She had hardly eaten. When they stopped, she just collapsed. On the move she stumbled along, head down. Charlie said he had to keep prodding her bumbling haunches. Davey took a deep, trembling breath. He made himself stop thinking about Sally. That would not help her. The only thing that could help her now was for him to get back his strength, so that he could get them all out of here and across that river.
He made his limbs relax. Suddenly, in an instant, he was asleep.
King Kong stood on all shaggy fours, looking anxiously at Davey. He knew that he had fallen asleep. And he knew what that meant, that nobody was watching for the enemies, that they were unprotected. He knew, as clearly as you and I would know it, that that should not be allowed to happen, that the danger had not passed. He stood staring worriedly at Davey, hoping he would wake up. His tension was communicated to the other animals, and they knew the same thing: that their protector was asleep.
King Kong turned and stared across the mountains, the way they had come, brown eyes frowning. He stared into the dense foliage, his nostrils flared, his ears alert. But he could not see very far. For a long moment he hesitated, frightened to leave the place where Davey lay—Davey, his protection and authority. Then he made his mind up as was his natural duty.
He gave a grunt and started warily back up the tracks the animals had made. The chimpanzees stayed near Davey, but the female gorilla, Auntie, started to follow, and he gave another grunt, in a different tone, which meant very clearly that she should stay behind.
King Kong went about fifty cautious yards; then he came to a rock. He peered anxiously over it. He could see a good distance into the late afternoon shadows.
He earnestly weighed up his position. Then he sat down and watched.
King Kong was not the only one watching.
The lions crouched, ears pricked, alert for the first sound of danger, ready to jerk up and flee.
But nothing happened; there were only the heavy breathing of the man, and the twitterings of the forest.
Slowly, a very little at a time, they began to untense. Auntie and the chimpanzees stared disconsolately in King Kong’s direction; they they began to feel their hunger and to glance around at the foliage. Slowly, they picked at this and that, still watching.
Through their tension, the lions’ hunger was deep rooted and urgent. It gnawed at Kitty’s guts, demanding. Crouched there, waiting, watchful, she looked at the chimpanzees.
She knew now that they were made of meat. For on that big bad night when Davey had killed Daisy, Kitty had watched them take that last walk together, off into the darkness. She had not known that Davey killed her, but she had smelled the blood, and after he came back and had thrown himself down, Kitty had crept off, following the scent. She had found Daisy’s body, buried under leaves; and Kitty had lain down and eaten her.
Now her blood, nerves, and sinews felt a quickening as she watched the chimpanzees.
On the other side of the French Broad River, Smoky still clung to his branch in the tree. Below, Sam lay on his stomach, his head tilted, staring at Smoky, a whimper never far from his throat.
Sam was at a loss. Every now and again he looked over his shoulder, listening and looking for Davey. Sam understood his duty very well. But he knew that there was no way he was going to get the bear down out of his tree.
The sun was setting. Sam looked up and whined at Smoky in frustration, and in supplication, to come down, to be gone.
All afternoon Smoky had clung to his branch, the infection in his flank thudding and his body aching, just longing for rest and a full belly. But he was afraid of Sam; and he was even more afraid of the darkening forests. Then, as the sun began to lower, Sam became frantic. He whimpered and yowled up at Smoky. And Smoky looked down at him, desperate for him to go away.
Slowly, finally, Sam knew what he had to do. It was no good waiting any more, Smoky was not going to obey, Sam knew. He had to give up now. But he hesitated, reluctant to leave his responsibility. Finally he made up his mind.
He took a last look up, barked once, and waited; then he turned and set off rapidly in the direction of the river. After ten yards he stopped and looked back. Smoky just stared at him. Sam turned and started to run.
Up in his tree, Smoky watched him go. Then he stared at the frightening wilderness about him.
He wanted to scramble down out of the tree and follow Sam, catch up with him and run behind him all the way till he found the other animals.
But he dared not. And his heart was breaking.
Davey slept.
The elephants knew they were unguarded; but after a while they were even more hungry than afraid. Trunks restlessly, nervously, reached out and plucked as they waited. Slowly, one heavy step at a time, they began to move. But they were watchful, aware, alert, and they kept together.
Jamba kept close to Clever; she also watched for Dumbo because, naturally, she was responsible for them both now that Queenie was gone. But neither Dumbo nor Clever needed watching. They both knew about the danger; they both knew about death now.
Nothing happened. The forest was still but for the sighs and slow sounds of their elephantine feeding.
They began to spread out a little in the weary importance of feeding, trunks curling up to their mouths, reaching out, all the time watching.
Then came the sharp bang of the gun.
The forest was rent; the tranquilizer dart smacked into Clever’s rump, and he squealed, and whirled around, and he fled.
He went thundering through the undergrowth, hindquarters tucked in, tail curled up, and the other animals fled all about him, blundering down the mountain in a scattered mass. Then they heard Davey’s piercing whistle. They saw him running through the trees, shouting for them, and they swerved and ran panic-stricken after him.
Clever ran, galloping behind Jamba, the silver dart bouncing on his big rump, pounding across the dense mountain; for maybe five hundred yards he ran; then suddenly his head reeled.
He lurched and buckled, then jerked his head up and righted himself. He squealed drunkenly and tried to lumber on, trying to catch up, and he staggered straight into a tree. He leaned there, groaning,
head reeling, wheezing; then he heaved himself away, and staggered on. He gave a confused grunt as he felt his massive body lurching sideways, and he crashed into another tree headfirst, so that the big tree shook. His hind legs slowly buckled; he sat down with a thump. And the other animals were gone.
For a minute Clever sat on his haunches, groaning, his head swooning; then the drug overwhelmed him, his eyes glazed, and he toppled over onto his side.
The recapture team came panting on tiptoe through the trees, the three Wildlife officers in the lead, then Elizabeth, then Jonas Ford. Way behind them came Frank Hunt and the journalists in a ragged, exhausted line.
Through his grogginess Clever heard the terrible voices. He gave a drunken squeal and scrambled up unsteadily; everybody scattered. He saw the people running, and he flapped out his ears and he tried to trumpet, but it came out as a whoozing snort, and he stumbled backwards. He lurched downhill under his own massive wobbly weight; then he hit another tree. His momentum swiveled him round, and he started plodding unsteadily down the mountainside.
For ten minutes Clever labored through the wilderness with the drug coursing through him. His heart was pounding with the stress of it. He had forgotten why he was running away, but he knew he had to. His eyes were glassy, and the sweat was a sheen on his flanks. Then he blundered head-on into another tree. He leaned there, wheezing; then he gave a Herculean snort to pull himself together, and his brain went black.
In one sudden buckling his legs gave way. His forehead skidded down the tree trunk, and he thumped onto his chest. He was fast asleep.
The recapture team gathered in a wide, panting semicircle around the great fallen animal. The cameraman was busy filming. Ambrose Jones’s old face was a mask of regret.
Elizabeth was crouching at Clever’s head. The feel of his massive, sweating prehistoric animalness under her hand gave her the same old thrill, of man-beast awe. It was a wonderful feeling: of awe, of love, of respect. She wanted to put her arms around his massive unconscious head and hug it. ‘Hello, Clever,’ she wanted to say.
Fear No Evil Page 16