Sunset at Sheba (8 page)

He nodded again.

‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

He grinned. ‘Nobody ever shot anything who told it he was coming first. They’ve got ears like you. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. That’s the way to pick up a buck.’

He grinned at the startled indignation on her face.

‘You’ve got to learn,’ he said. ‘Only born fools stay fools all their lives.’

She shut her mouth with a click at the implied rebuke and he nudged the Argentino ahead of the cart. She flicked the reins across the grey mare’s back and followed him, her lips clamped, trying hard to behave with his taciturnity and finding it, with her normal capacity for endless chatter, difficult to the point of being exhausting. Fully awake now though, her nose in the air and sniffing, she felt keenly the space around her, and for the first time was curiously content simply to be there.

As they reached the top of a fold in the ground, he reined in - not sharply, but gently, with an instinctive movement as though he never moved awkwardly or in any abrupt way that might break the rhythm of his movements.

‘Springbok down there,’ he said softly. ‘Moving slow. They like to loiter when they’re undisturbed.’

She stared into the floor of a shallow valley, a vast basin with sloping sides, the purple hills like clouds beyond it. Other folds opened out from the main valley, some veiled in this mist, others just touched by light, and all filled with a curious blue glow that came from the milky vapours, so that they seemed to be looking into the depths of clear water. The ground before them was studded with ant heaps and a few karroo flowers, their foliage grey-green against the red soil.

Polly strained her eyes, trying to see what Sammy saw. ‘How do you know there’s springbok?’ she asked.

‘I can see ‘em,’ he said, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Polly stared again. ‘You got damn’ good eyes!’ she retorted, unbelieving.

‘Practice,’ he said. ‘I can see things because I’m looking for ‘em. They’re scattered now. They’re always like that till the sun gets up. You can see their heads out of the mist if you look careful.’

He was glancing round him, moving slowly and deliberately in the saddle.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘Come on down when you hear me shoot.’

‘Will that mean you’ve got one?’

‘Usually does. I don’t miss often. You can get down in the valley with the cart, but keep upwind of ‘em, if you can. Then if they whiff you they’ll scatter towards me. Give me a chance to get across the other side first though. That’s all.’

For a moment, as he sat with one leg cocked over the saddle he seemed almost statuesque on the little knoll, sharp against the brightening sky, then he kicked the horse into a gallop and a bunched flock of guinea-fowl in the distance, black-barred and grey, and squat and round as barrels, scattered quickly along the edge of the dusty track, moving like shining beads of lead, ‘chinking’ excitedly as their turkey heads disappeared into the stubby grass.

He had been gone some time and she was feeling incredibly alone when at last she caught a glimpse of a group of animals at the far side of the valley above the milkiness of the mist, moving rapidly along the sloping bowl of the land. With a spasm of excitement she. knew at once they were springbok from the speed with which they moved. With their bright lithe bodies they seemed like a stream of water rippling in the growing daylight, almost as though their bodies reflected the glowing sky.

For a moment, she was puzzled, for these couldn’t have been the herd that Sammy had seen, and she moved slowly farther into the valley, among the ghostly tops of the thorn trees. Her first glimpse of the nearer buck was of one or two dim ghostly shapes suspended against an invisible background, bodies without legs, heads without bodies. She had stumbled on them unexpectedly and she halted the cart, not quite sure what to do, and while she was still debating with herself, two shots rang out on her right.

Twenty or thirty horned heads shot up immediately out of the mist where before she had only seen two or three. Then they began to move towards her and she saw the whole herd as the mist shifted. Like drops of bright water flung against a stone they broke apart abruptly at the alarm, then they swung together again like metal filings under the influence of a magnet. They were racing across the veld now in a straight line diagonally across her front and disappearing behind the fold of the next slope. Excitedly, she realised they would cross her path, and the next second the buck, sweeping up the slope in a strung-out cloud, rolled over the curve of the hill towards her, swinging past her almost as though they were all attached to the same string.

Then they were spraying outwards round her, a whirlpool of racing animals in a cloud of dust to right and left of her, in full flight, dozens and dozens and dozens of them, springing and jinking as they passed her at top speed, giving little sneezy snorts as they leapt over each other in graceful nine-foot curves in their efforts to escape. She found herself screaming with excitement as the brown and black and white striped bodies shot past her, and almost too late she remembered the shotgun. Dragging it out of the cart, she blasted into the tail-end of the herd as it swept past, and to her delight, a big ram stumbled and fell.

Before she knew what was happening, the rest had swept on up the slope, the sound of their feet dying through the drifting dust, bright shifting motes now where they had once been animals, disappearing over the top of the slope where the sun was already touching the curve of the earth, only tiny stirrings of movement, more like changes of light than the manoeuvres of a herd of antelope swinging out of danger and melting into the far pathway of the horizon.

She laughed, her heart still thumping with excitement, and turned to where she could see the body of the buck sprawled in the dust forty yards away.

‘Well, that’s not bad for the first go at it,’ she said gaily, pleased with herself.

She whacked the horse into a shambling gallop and rattled across to where the buck lay, the cart jerking and rolling over the uneven track, the hubs screeching on the axles, small stones flying out from under the iron rims of the wheels. Gradually, with the help of the slope, the old horse moved faster and she suddenly found herself bouncing about on the seat, struggling to keep her balance.

‘God’s truth,’ she cried out, in sudden alarm as she realised the horse was enjoying itself also and had broken into a furious gallop; and she began heaving on the reins, sawing with them at its mouth so that it swung off the track and across the rough ground.

She reached the buck with the horse weaving in a staggering gallop as it tried to dodge the ant heaps and the small dry karroo bushes that disappeared beneath the wheels in an explosive shower of twigs, and as she pulled up, her box bounced clean out over the tailboard and went rolling across the ground, bursting open to scatter her belongings on the grass, her underclothes flying through the air like great white birds. Then the back end of the cart hit a rock, bounced off in a whipping turn and almost rolled over.

Polly sat up, panting and scared, as they came to a stop and stared back at her scattered clothes. ‘Lor’,’ she said aloud, ‘there’s more to this lark than meets the eye.’

She climbed down and moved towards the buck, cautious at first, afraid and excited at the same time, and then faster as her curiosity caught hold of her. Stopping alongside the slim body, she was consumed with disappointment and despair at the sight of the staring velvety eyes. The hide, which had seemed so smooth at a distance, now seemed shabby and rough and the long frail legs ending in the sharply pointed hooves worried her that she had stilled them for ever. Then, while she was still staring, she saw the hindquarters heave in a spasmodic movement and the head lifted, the jaw working, curious formless sounds coming from the throat.

A scream was jerked out of her and she began to run, stopping only when she realised she wasn’t being followed by the crippled buck. For a second she stared back then, her legs still unsteady, she began to collect her clothes with nervous haste, stuffing them anyhow into the box. Bundling it into the cart, she climbed on to the seat and sent the old horse shambling into the wreaths of mist, suddenly wanting to be nearer to Sammy, more than ever aware of loneliness in the vastness of the plain.

Sammy was bending over the carcass of a buck on the floor of the valley, his knife slitting it up the belly, gutting it, until it was no longer a lovely living thing but a small faded heap of hide and flesh and bone. He looked up as she approached and saw her face.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘It just don’t seem right,’ she said, in a small voice.

‘What don’t?’

‘When they look like they do,’ she explained inadequately. ‘They’re pretty for wild animals.’

He nodded. ‘Often think that meself,’ he said.

He removed the liver and set it aside, then he wiped the blood from his fingers with a handful of sparse grass and stood up.

‘There’s another across there,’ he said.

‘I shot one too, Sammy,’ she said, unable to restrain the pride in her voice.

He looked up and grinned, surprised, and her face fell again.

‘It’s up there,’ she went on, her voice trembling. ‘It’s not properly dead. For God’s sake, come and put it out of its misery. I’m not so sure I like shooting.’

He straightened up in a loose, smooth movement and slung the carcass of the buck across the back of the cart. ‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get it.’

He searched round quietly in the mist for a moment and stooped. When he returned, she saw he had the body of another buck across his shoulders, slung on his rifle like a pack, the front legs through the slit tendons of the hind legs. He gutted it quickly and laid it with the other in the back of the cart, then he swung into the saddle and indicated the slope of the hill with the Henry.

‘With two of us shooting,’ he grinned, ‘we’ll have so much meat to eat, we won’t be able to move. I’ll go and fetch it. You wait here.’

He glanced upwards and jerked his thumb. The vultures were above them already, black ragged dots circling directly overhead with unmoving wings. He grinned again, and kicked the mare into a gallop and she saw him scrambling up the slope, growing smaller as he climbed into the sunshine.

As he reached the top he stopped, looking for the buck, and she saw him sit there for a moment, huge against the skyline, his rifle like a lance across his body, then he jammed the weapon into the scabbard and swung the horse round abruptly. She saw the puff of dust as he moved farther back down the slope, and slipped from the saddle again.

For a second, thinking he had found the buck, she was puzzled, feeling she had been lower down the slope when she had shot it. But he didn’t stoop. He remained standing, staring over the top of the fold of ground towards the south, then he took his hat off and held it low over his eyes, still staring into the sun.

For a moment, she thought he hadn’t been able to see the buck and was on the point of whipping the old horse up the hill towards him, when he swung into the saddle again, and dragged the Argentino swiftly round and came down towards her at a flat gallop. To her surprise, he hadn’t got the buck.

He pulled up alongside the cart and pointed with his hand.

‘Soldiers,’ he said. ‘Right in front of us.’

‘Right in front of us?’ She glanced towards the hill, startled to find they were sharing the vast expanse of the veld with someone else. ‘Who are they, Sammy? De Wet?’

He shook his head. ‘Kitto’s crowd,’ he said. ‘The soldiers from the Sidings. In front and to the east a bit. I saw ‘em from the top of the hill. They’ve got two motorcars out there, and a lorry.’

‘How do you know they’re Kitto’s crowd?’

‘Well, they’re not Germans,’ he explained. ‘Not this far east. Besides, they’re going the wrong way for Germans. And it’s not De Wet.
He’s
got no motors.’

She stared at him, beginning to be a little afraid. ‘Sammy, are they following us? Have they found out we’re not going where they said we’d got to go?’

He shook his head. ‘I dunno. Maybe not. They’re soldiers, after all, not Plummer’s men. Maybe it’s just a patrol looking for De Wet, but they’re there right enough. Must be a couple of dozen horses too, spread out in a big line either side of the motors, looking for a trail most like.’

He turned in the saddle and gazed up the slope. ‘At least they can’t see us here,’ he went on. ‘And we’ll always be able to see them first. Motors make so much dust you can see ‘em miles away. Let’s get going, Poll. Whatever they’re up to, we don’t want to get mixed up in it. I don’t want to find myself in the middle of a war. We’ll head more west round the curve of the valley. They’ll most likely miss us then. They’re heading south.’

She shot a glance towards the crest of the hill, puzzled and uneasy, then turned again to Sammy, who sat staring back over the hill, his eyes narrowed, mere ice-blue slits in the shadow of his hat, his whole body still with the stillness only an experienced hunter could manage. She’d seen him sitting like that many times back near her father’s farm as a boy, his eyes on something he was watching, motionless as a tree, knowing that it wasn’t his shape that startled a buck so much as his movement. He seemed almost as though he weren’t breathing, stilled by an instinct for danger that had become developed in him by all the hunting he’d done.

Then he pulled the Henry out of its scabbard and slid a cartridge into the breech with a click. As he did so, he looked up and caught her eyes on him. The significance of the action had not escaped her.

‘Sammy,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m scared. Are
you
scared?’

He shook his head, forcing a smile.

‘Not yet, Poll,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but if that lot
should
be follering us for some reason, I’ll soon start to get scared.’

She slapped the reins across the back of the mare and the cart started to move.

‘That’s it. Keep her going, Poll,’ he encouraged. ‘Perhaps if we can get round them hills, they’ll miss us.’