The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (7 page)

“Come, Dutchy, let us leave this place before they turn my Matabele warriors into screaming women,” Rigby yelled, glancing back at his men, who were all grinning. When he opened the door, he made sure the bandits saw his .416. They moved closer to get a better look. “Such a fine weapon—you waste it on lions. Have you killed many with it?” one man asked. Another man walked behind the truck, but jumped back when Jocko tried to bite him.

“I've killed many things with this rifle.”

***

They made their camp on the Luvuvhu River. After the men collected hook-thorn bushes, they interlocked the scrub into a protective circle, known as a
boma.
At the end of the day, Rigby and Sam Mabota inspected the thorny barrier for gaps. Satisfied, they closed the entrance from the inside.

At first the night was peaceful, but then it started. A distant male called his females with a few resonating snorts. Dominant males warned other males. Females called their pride sisters to fresh kills. The bellowing got so loud it sounded like the lions had penetrated their
boma
.

Jocko was not amused. The dog whimpered and sought comfort from Dutchy, who pushed him away. The terrier nipped his hand. “Jocko, these men will think you're a sissy.” Dutchy reached down, picked the dog up and kissed him. He pushed Jocko under his blanket.

Croxford was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He shared a tent with Dutchy, whose whiskey-induced snoring was louder than the lions. Just before dawn, Rigby found refuge under a truck where Sam and the other men had slept. The tyranny of the night abated at first light. The mournful cooing of doves replaced the night sounds.

“Sam, could you find sleep?” Rigby asked, yawning. “
Awa
. Only death could bring sleep with the Dutchman's snoring. Let's look outside the
boma
for lion spoor.” When Dutchy walked up behind Sam and Rigby, they were inspecting some pugmarks. Sam picked at a pile of bloodied lion feces with a stick. The foul smelling heap contained hair and human teeth. The stench overloaded Jocko's olfactory system. The dog raced around marking the area with urine squirts. As he leaned in to check the scent under a mopani bush, Dutchy tossed a stick into the bush and snorted. The dog vaulted into his master's arms. When he laughed, Jocko growled.

“My brother, are there any males?” Rigby asked Sam, urinating with one hand while picking an errant piece of tobacco from his teeth with the other.

“
Yebo, Baba
,
kubili
.”

“How big?”

“Very big,” answered Sam.

“I reckon we should make our thorn-walls higher,” Rigby said, stooping down. He tried to span the lion track with his hand; the pugmark was bigger. Normal lions shun humans, but these lions are different, Rigby reasoned.

***

At midday, Rigby and Sam left the compound to pick up Max Turner. The road was so rutted even wallowing in four-wheel drive couldn't stop the truck from heading off in directions contrary to Rigby's efforts. After struggling for hours, they drove up behind two women and a skinny young girl walking on the road. They had knapsacks slung over their shoulders. The women started to run, but when they realized it was too late, they froze.

“My sisters, do not fear us,” Sam yelled in Afrikaans. The young girl looked scared and refused eye contact. She had a clubfoot and walked with the aid of a stick.

“Ladies, come ride with us,” said Rigby. “We need protection from the Renamo bandits. Although I must say, if you let our noisy truck sneak up on you, I doubt you can offer us much protection.” The two women laughed and the young girl giggled. They climbed into the back of the truck. Within seconds, the crippled girl was sleeping.

Sam learned they had walked from Maputo, a coastal town in Mozambique. They had been with a group of thirty refugees, but had split up into smaller groups hoping to sneak across the South African border. The women had endured bandits and wild animals, but what they feared the most was getting caught by the South African police.

They parked under an ebony tree. The men shared their lunch with the women. When Rigby saw how quickly they devoured the food, he insisted that he wasn't hungry. Sam cut and whittled a better walking stick for the crippled girl. When it was time to go, the women declined to ride with them. They explained they were afraid the truck might attract the attention of the border police. As the truck pulled away, the women yelled something, but their words were consumed by the straining engine.

“Walk with God, my sisters,” Sam yelled. One hour later, they arrived at the South African border crossing.

“
Pra't jai enals
?” the border guard asked Rigby.

“Yes, I speak English.”

“Did you see any kaffirs?” the guard inquired, looking at Sam. Sam stared back defiantly.

“We were stopped by bandits yesterday,” said Rigby.

“What about refugees?”

“We've seen no refugees. We're collecting our client at Sabu. We should be back here in two hours.”

“You're out of luck. This border crossing closes in one hour. There's no way you'll catch me out here after dark. Too many lions to suit me. See you bright and early. We open at 0600.”

“Right you are. See you at first light,” Rigby yelled.

“That white hyena turd is too foul for lions to eat,” Mabota said, as they drove away.

***

Sabu Safari Lodge was one of those luxury safari camps only the grotesquely rich could afford. Rigby set out to find Max Turner. Waiters wearing formal attire and red fezzes scurried along the walkways carrying silver trays of drinks and food.

Max Turner walked out of his chalet wearing a safari outfit complete with knee socks and desert boots. His Indiana Jones style hat was banded in zebra hide. He wore elephant hair bracelets on both wrists. Croxford bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Welcome to Africa, Max. You might be slightly overdressed for Mozambique.” Before Max could answer, Rigby's partner, Hansel Martin, walked up behind him.

“We have a problem. Mr. Turner has brought two guests,” Martin said.

Rigby saw Max's daughter-in-law standing in the doorway. “Max, this isn't what we agreed to. Mozambique is no place for a woman or your fucking buddy. No pun intended. This isn't gonna fly.”

“I didn't think there would be a problem. You wouldn't object to them staying here?”

“Of course not.”

“That's settled. Anything else?” Max sounded irritated.

“That covers it. We'll pick you up one hour before dawn. Tell your friends you'll see them in ten days.”

“I thought we agreed to two weeks.”

“The agreement was to get you a lion. Where we're going is crawling with lions. Getting you a lion in ten days won't be a problem.”

“Great. Sorry about the mix-up. What about dinner tonight?” Max asked.

“I'm afraid that's quite impossible. I pitched my tent down the road. These bloody hotel rates would force me to sell my farm. Remember, I need you ready to go at first light. We're in for a hell of a drive. Cheers, Max, see you in the morning.” As they walked away, Rigby remarked to Martin, “I'd rather eat hyena shit than have dinner with that asshole. I'm gonna need you to keep an eye on his friends. Turner's a snake. I'd like to get this safari over as quickly as possible.”

“Turner's woman is something else. I can't remember seeing a better-looking bird.”

“That woman's not his, she's—let's just say it's complicated. Do yourself a favor, stay the hell away from her.”

“Christ, Rigby, no need to get so huffy. I've never seen you so edgy.”

“I haven't slept a wink since I agreed to do this hunt. I wish I'd listened to my wife.” Rigby said goodnight to Martin and retreated to his tent.

***

Dawn peeked over the Lebombo Mountains as they arrived at the border post. There were two South African army trucks parked next to the Customs and Immigration building. One was a flatbed. Rigby saw what appeared to be bodies covered by a dark green tarp. “What's going on here?” he asked the border guard.

“Poor devils, three women raped and killed by bandits. Say, the kaffirs who stopped you. Was one missing a hand? Are you all right?”

Rigby felt dizzy. He paused before speaking. “Sorry. Yes, one was missing a hand. Are you sure it's the same bunch?” Rigby asked, handing him passports and papers.

“Quite. Preying on refugees is their pleasure. Wicked devils. Be careful, my friend,” the guard said.

“Cheers. Thanks for the warning,” Rigby replied.

Rigby walked over to the truck and lifted the edge of the tarp. When he saw the clubfoot, he gently recovered it. Turner questioned him. Rigby mumbled something about a dead animal, but Sam knew otherwise. Rigby dried his eyes, but when he realized Sam was staring at him he regained his composure.

The six-hour drive to camp was done in almost total silence. They stopped once to give way to a herd of elephants lumbering across the road. Rigby refused help with the driving and seemed to take out his hostility on the bumpy road. Max's endless questions were answered with terse responses. Rigby stopped at the same place they stopped the day before. Instead of eating, he walked down by the river.

When they pulled into camp, Dutchy greeted them with Jocko tucked under his arm. “Did you miss me?” Rigby light heartedly asked Dutchy.

“I missed you. Jocko missed you. You should have heard them last night. In the morning, we followed the sticks. It was a young male and his three lionesses.” Dutchy turned to Max and extended his hand. “You must be Turner.”

“Max, the men place sticks in the direction of the last roars they hear,” Rigby explained. “It helps us find them in the morning. Lions don't venture far in the heat of the day. It'll all be clearer tomorrow. You might want to sleep with earplugs. The sound's quite deafening.”

“Don't worry about me,” Max scoffed.

“Suit yourself. Just remember, I warned you. Now, let's make sure that fancy rifle of yours is zeroed in. We've put some targets up at a hundred meters.”

Both Dutchy and Croxford were surprised by Turner's marksmanship. He had obviously been practicing. “A charging lion is not a paper target,” Dutchy said to Rigby with his back turned to Max. “We'll see how wellhe shoots when the time comes.”

***

Max wasn't sleeping. After the second night, he demanded that Rigby place an armed guard outside of his tent. The next morning Max complained. “The night guard's useless. I heard him snoring.”

To calm Turner down, Dutchy and Rigby took over the guard-duty detail. Two nights later, Turner caught Rigby napping. The third time Turner woke Rigby up, the reception he received shocked him. “Max, if you wake me up one more time, I'll put a bullet right between your bloodshot eyes. Do we understand each other?”

In the morning, he handed Turner his first mug of coffee. “Sorry about last night. Sleeping with these lions is enough to drive any man insane.”

“All's forgiven, as long as I get my lion.”

“Lion hunting is never easy. The dumb ones have already been shot.”

“I hope I get a chance to redeem myself,” Max said.

At dusk, Max shot a zebra stallion. It was a head shot at over two hundred meters. The men used parts of the zebra carcass to bait three blinds. That night, they had no takers except for two large lionesses and a male so young he still had the camouflage spots on his flanks. On the fourth night, Rigby tried a tape recording of a male roaring, but it silenced the younger males. Even the recording of hyenas on a kill would not bring them into shooting range. On the fifth day the lion hunting improved, but it was the worst day of Rigby Croxford's life.

***

Dutchy and Sam returned from their morning scouting expedition. They had seen white-backed vultures circling above a baobab tree. It was enough to get Rigby and Turner scrambling into the back of the truck.

“Max, I know you're getting tired of hearing it, but this could be the day. Just remember what we've gone over. A male lion broadside is three meters long. You need to shoot him here.” Rigby indicated a place under his armpit. “That way, you take out a lung and maybe his heart. If he charges your target size is reduced to the size of a man's fist. A lion's skull is shaped like an arrowhead. Let him get close before you pull the trigger or you may get a ricochet. When I say close, I mean so close you can smell his breath. We'll wait for you to fire the first shot, but after that one, we'll all be firing. I know I've said this before, but you can't run. If any of us bolt, it'll turn a mock charge into the real thing. A good shot is what we need from you. Any questions?”