Cry Wolf Page 14

  at the abrupt halt, striking his shoulder and forehead painfully on the

  steel visor.

  The engine shrieked in the frenzy of high revolutions and lifting

  valves before Jake recovered himself, then slammed the throttle

  closed.

  He dragged himself from the turret to signal a halt to the following

  vehicles, and then mournfully clambered down to inspect the heavily

  bogged vehicle. Gareth walked out across the snowy surface of the

  pan,

  and stood beside him surveying the damage silently.

  "Let him make one crack " Jake thought through the mists of his anger

  and frustration. He felt his hands curling into big bony hammers.

  "Cheroot?" Gareth offered him the case, and Jake felt his anger

  deflate slightly.

  "Good place to camp tonight," Gareth went on. "We'll see about hauling

  her out in the morning." He clapped Jake's shoulder. "Come on,

  I'll buy you a warm beer."

  "I was waiting for you to say something,

  anything but that and I would have swung on you. "Jake shook his

  head

  grinning with surprise at Gareth's perception.

  "You think I didn't know that, old son?" Gareth grinned back at him.

  Vicky woke in the hours immediately after midnight when human vitality

  is at its lowest, and the night was utterly silent except for the

  gentle sound of one of the men snoring. She recognized the sound from

  the previous evening, and wondered which of them it was.

  something like that could influence a girl's decision, she thought,

  imagine sleeping every night of your life in a saw mill.

  It was not that which had woken her, however. Perhaps it was the cold.

  The temperature had plunged in that phenomenal temperature range of the

  desert, and she drew her blankets tighter over her shoulder and settled

  to sleep ,again when the sound came again and she shot upright into a

  rigid sitting position.

  It was a long-drawn rolling, rattling sound, quite unlike anything she

  had ever heard before. The sound rose to a pitch which clawed her

  nerves, and then ended in a series of deep gut-shaking grunts. It was

  so fierce and menacing a sound that she felt the slow ice of terror

  spreading through her body. She wanted to shout to the others, to wake

  them, but she was afraid to draw attention to herself and she sat

  frozen and wide-eyed in the next silence waiting for it to happen

  again.

  "It's all right, Miss Camberwell." Vicky started at the quiet voice.

  "It's miles away. Nothing to worry about." And she looked round to

  see the young Ethiopian, still wrapped in his blankets watching her.

  "My God, Greg what on earth is it?"

  "A lion, Miss Camberwell,"

  Gregorius . explained, obviously surprised that she did not recognize

  such a commonplace sound.

  "A lion? That is a lion roaring?" She had not expected it to sound

  anything like that.

  "My people say that even a brave man is frightened three times by a

  lion and the first time is when he hears it roar."

  "I believe it,"

  she whispered. "I truly do." And she picked up her blankets and went

  to where Jake and Gareth slept on, undisturbed. She lay down carefully

  between them, and felt a little easier that the lion had now a wider

  choice, but still she did not sleep, Count Aldo Belli had retired to

  his tent with the sincerest and firmest resolve that in the morning he

  would press forward to the Wells of Chaldi. The General's pleas had

  touched him. Nothing would check him now, he decided, as he composed

  himself to sleep.

  He woke in the utter dark of the dog hours to find that the

  Chianti he had drunk at dinner was now exerting internal pressure.

  Where a lesser man might have slipped without ceremony from his bed to

  deal with this problem, the Count did things in greater style.

  He lay back on his pillows and let out a single loud bellow, and

  immediately there was the frantic activity in the night, and within

  minutes Gino had arrived with a bull's-eye lantern, hastily dressed in

  a camel-hair gown, and tousle-haired and owl-eyed with sleep. He was

  followed by the Count's personal valet and his galloper, all in the

  same state of freshly awoken bewilderment.

  The Count stated his physical needs, and the dedicated group gathered

  around his bed solicitously. Gino helped him up as though he were an

  invalid, the valet held a dressing gown of quilted blue Chinese silk,

  embroidered with ferocious scarlet dragons, and then knelt to place a

  calf-skin slipper on each of the Count's feet, while his aide hastened

  to kick the Count's personal guard awake and fall them in outside the

  tent.

  The Count emerged from the tent and a small procession, well armed and

  lighted, filed down to the latrine which had been dug exclusively for

  the Count's personal use. Gino entered first and checked the small

  thatched edifice for snakes, scorpions and brigands. Only when he

  emerged and declared it safe did the Count enter. His escort stood to

  attention and listened respectfully to the copious outpouring taking

  place within until they were interrupted by the sky shaking

  earth-rattling, heart-stopping roar of a male lion.

  The Count shot from the latrine, his face a startled glistening white

  in the lantern light.

  "Sweet and merciful Mother of God!" he cried. "What in the name of

  Peter and all the saints is that?" Nobody could answer him, in fact

  nobody showed any interest in the question whatever, and the Count had

  to move swiftly to catch up with his armed escort which had already

  started back towards the bivouac in a sprightly fashion.

  Once within the security of his own brightly lit tent, and surrounded

  by his hastily assembled staff, the Count's pulse rate returned to

  normal, and one of his officers suggested that the native

  Eritrean guides be sent for and questioned on the terrible night sounds

  that had plunged the entire battalion into consternation.

  "Lion?" said the Count, and then again, "Lion!" Instantly the

  formless terrors of the night evaporated, for by this time the first

  light of dawn was gleaming in the east, and the Count's breast swelled

  with the fierce instincts of the huntsman.

  "It appears, my Colonel, that the beasts will be feeding on the

  antelope carcasses that you left lying out on the desert," the

  interpreter explained. "The smell of blood has attracted them."

  aGi no snapped the Count. "Fetch the Mannlicher and have the driver

  bring the Rolls-Royce to my tent immediately." My Colonel,"

  protested

  Major Luigi Castelani. "The battalion, by your own orders, is to march

  at dawn."

  "I Countermanded!" snapped the Colonel. Already he imagined the

  magnificent trophy skin spread before his Louis XIV desk in the library

  of his castle. He would have it prepared with wide open jaws,

  flashing white fangs and fierce yellow glass eyes. The picture of open

  jaws and fangs suddenly reminded him with considerable force of his

  nerve racking brush with the beisa oryx. "Major," he ordered, "I

  want twenty m
en to accompany me, a truck to transport them, full battle

  order, and one hundred rounds of ammunition each." The Count was not

  about to take any more silly chances.

  The lion was a fully mature male, six years of age, and, like most of

  the desert strain of leo panthers, he was much larger than the forest

  lions. He stood well over three feet high at the shoulder, and he

  weighed in excess of four hundred pounds. The late sun enhanced the

  sleek reddish ochre of his skin and transformed his mane into a glowing

  halo of gold. The mane was dense and long, framing the broad flattened

  head, reaching far back beyond the shoulder, and hanging so low under

  his chest and belly as almost to sweep the earth.

  He walked stiffly, head held very low and swinging heavily from side to

  side with each laborious step. His breathing came with a low explosive

  grunt at each exhalation, and occasionally he stopped and swung his

  head to snap irritably at the buzzing blue cloud of flies that swarmed

  about the wound in his flank. Then he would lick at the small dark

  hole from which pale watery blood oozed steadily.

  The long pink tongue curled out and, rough as shagreen, rasped against

  the supple hide. The constant licking had away the hair around the

  wound, giving it a pale worn shaven appearance.

  The 9.3 Marmlicher bullet had caught him at the instant he had begun to

  turn away to run. It had angled in from two inches behind the last

  rib, striking with a force of nine tons that had bowled the lion down,

  rolling him in a cloud of pale dust. The copper-jacketed bullet was

  tipped with soft expanding lead, and it mushroomed as it raked the

  belly cavity, lacerating the bowels and tearing four large abdominal

  veins. The slug had passed close enough to the kidneys to bruise both

  of them severely, so now, when the lion stopped, arched his back and

  crouched to pass a spattering of bloodstained urine, he groaned like

  the roll of drums at an execution. Then, finally, the bullet had

  struck the arch of the pelvic girdle and lodged there against the

  bone.

  After the first massive shock of impact, the lion had rolled to his

  feet and flattened into a dead streaking run, jinking away below the

  level of the coarse scrub. Although a dozen more bullets had thrown up

  soft jumping spurts of dust around him, one so close as to throw grit

  into his eyes, not another touched him.

  There had been seven lions in the pride. Another older, heavier,

  darker-maned male, two younger daintier breeding females, one with her

  lithe-wasted body thickened with the heavy bearing of young in her

  womb, and three immature animals still dappled with their cub spots and

  boisterous as kittens.

  The younger male was the only one to survive that long shattering roll

  of rifle fire, and now as he moved on he felt the thick jelly-like

  weight of congealing blood sloshing back and forth across his belly

  cavity at each step. There was a heavy lethargy slowing his

  movements,

  but thirst drove him onwards. Thirst was a scalding agony that

  consumed his whole body, and the lower pools of the Awash River were a

  dozen miles ahead.

  In the dawn Priscilla the Pig was heavily bogged down on her belly with

  all four wheels helpless in the porridge of pale salt mire below the

  crust of the pan.

  Jake stripped to the waist and swung the long two handed axe

  relentlessly, while the others gathered the piles of thorny scrub he

  mowed down, and, cursing at the pricks and scratches, carried them out

  across the snowy surface of the pan.

  Jake worked with a self punishing fury, angry with his lack of

  attention which had bogged the car and was going to cost them a day at

  the least. It was no valid excuse that exhaustion and heat had clouded

  his judgement that he had not recognized the treacherous smooth white

  surface of the pan for Gregorius had warned him specifically of this

  hazard. He worked with the axe from an hour before sunrise until the

  heat had climbed with the sun and a small mountain of cut branches

  stood beside the car.

  Then Gareth helped him build a firm foundation of flat stones and

  thicker branches under the engine compartment of the car. They had to

  lie on their sides and grovel in the dust to get the big screw jack set

  up on the base and they slowly lifted the front of the car, turning the

  handle between them.

  As the front wheels rose an inch at a time, Vicky and Gregorius packed

  the wiry scrub branches under them. It was slow and laborious work

  which had to be repeated at the rear of the car.

  it was past noon before Priscilla the Pig stood forlornly balanced on

  four piles of compacted branches but her belly was clear of the surface

  "What do we do now?" Gareth asked. "Drive her back?"

  "One spin of the wheels will kick that trash out and she'll bog down

  again," Jake grunted, and wiped his sweat glistening chest on the

  bundled shirt in his hand. He looked at Gareth and felt a flare of

  irritation that after five hours" work in the sun, after grovelling on

  his belly in the dust, and heaving on the jack handle, the man had

  barely raised a/

  sweat, his clothes were unmarked and final provocation his hair was

  still neatly combed.

  Working under Jake's direction, they cut and laid a corduroy of

  branches back to the hard ground at the edge of the pan. This would

  distribute the weight of the vehicle and prevent it breaking through

  the crust again.

  Then Vicky manoeuvred and reversed Miss Wobbly down to the edge of the

  pan and lined her up with the causeway of branches. The men joined

  three coils of the thick manila line and carried it out to the stranded

  vehicle, unrolling it behind them as they went, until at last the two

  cars were joined by that fragile thread.

  Gareth climbed in and took the wheel of Priscilla while Jake and

  Gregorius, armed with two of the thickest branches, stood ready to

  lever the wheels.

  "You any good at praying, Gary? "Jake shouted.

  "Not my strong suit, old son."

  "Well, stiffen the old upper lip then. "Jake mimicked him, and then

  let out a bellow at Vicky who acknowledged with a wave before her

  golden head disappeared into the driver's hatch of Miss Wobbly. The

  engine beat accelerated and the line came up taut as Miss Wobbly rolled

  forward up the incline above the pan.

  "Keep the wheels straight," shouted Jake, and he and Gregorius threw

  their weight on the branches, giving just that ounce of leverage

  sufficient to transfer part of the vehicle's weight on to the

  corduroyed pathway.

  Slowly, ponderously, the cumbersome vehicle rolled back across the pan,

  until she reached the hard ground and the four of them shouted with

  relief and triumph.

  Jake retrieved two celebratory bottles of Tusker beer from his secret

  hoard, but the liquid was so warm that half of it exploded in a fizzing

  gush from the mouth of each bottle as it was opened, and there was only

  a mouthful for each of them.

  "Can we reach t
he lower Awash by nightfall?" Jake demanded, and

  Gregorius looked up and judged the angle of the sun before replying.

  "If we don't waste any more time," he said.

  Still on a compass heading, and giving the salt-white pans a wide

  berth, the column ground on steadily into the west.

  In the mid afternoon they reached the sand desert, with its towering

  whale-backed dunes throwing lovely lyrical shadows in the hollows

  between. The colour of the sand varied from dark purple to the softest

  pinks and talcum white, and was so fine and soft that the wind blew

  long smoke-like plumes from the crest of each dune.

  Under Gregorius's direction they turned northwards, and within half an

  hour they had found the long narrow ridge of ironstone that bisected

  the sand desert and formed a narrow causeway through the shifting

  dunes. They crept following its winding course slowly across this

  rocky bridge, for twelve miles, while the dunes rose on each side of

  them.

  Vicky thought that this was much like the passage of the Red Sea by the

  fleeing Israelites. Even the dunes seemed like frozen waves that might

  at each moment come crashing down to swamp them and she despaired that

  she could ever adequately describe the wild and disordered beauty of

  this multicoloured sea of sand.

  They emerged at last and with startling suddenness into the dry flat

  grasslands of the Ethiopian lowlands. The desert proper was at last

  behind them and although this was a harsh and and savannah,

  there was, at least, the occasional thorn tree and an almost unbroken

  carpet of se red grass the grass was so amongst the low thorny scrub.

  Altho fine and dry that all colour had been bleached from it by the

  sun, it shone silver and stiff as though coated with hoar frost.

  Most cheering of all was the distant but discernible blue outline of

  the far mountains. Now they hovered at the edge of their awareness,

  a far beacon calling them onward.

  Over the short crisp grass, the four vehicles roared forward joyously,

  bumping through an occasional ant-bear hole and flattening the clumps

  of low them that stood in their way as they plunged ahead.

  In the last glimmering of the day, just when Jake had decided to halt

  the day's march, the flat land ahead of them opened miraculously and

  they looked down into the steep boulder-strewn gorge of the Awash

  River fifty feet below them. They climbed out of the parked vehicles