A Sparrow Falls c-9 Page 7

  Vaguely disturbed, and troubled by the day just past, by the cold memories of the old man, by the sadness of that dying river, and at last by that distant figure, Mark crouched over his fire, munching his stew of tinned bully and then sipping his coffee.

  When at last he pulled on his coat and rolled into his blanket close beside the fire, he could not sleep. The sense of disquiet seemed to grow rather than abate, and he found himself wondering again what four horsemen could find to hunt on the edge of a busy town. Then he thought again about the way that they had followed his own path along the river, and the disquiet deepened, sleep receded.

  Suddenly he remembered how the old man would never sleep beside his cooking fire. I learned that when we was a chasing the Boer. A light in the night brings things other than moths, lions, hyenas and men. He could almost hear the old man's voice saying it, and he rose immediately, with the blanket still around his shoulders, and moved away up the slope fifty yards until he found a hollow filled with dead leaves.

  Sleep came at last and the soft skirt of it was falling lightly across his eyes when a Scops owl called in the forest near him; instantly he was fully awake. It was a familiar night sound, but this one had jarred some deep chord in him. The imitation had been clever, but it did not deceive an ear so closely tuned to the sounds of the wild.

  Tense and listening, Mark lifted his head slowly and peered down the slope. His fire was a puddle of pink embers and above him the shapes of the trees were dark and fluffy against a crisp sky of white stars.

  The owl called again down near the pool, and, at the same moment, Mark heard something move stealthily near him in the darkness, something big and heavy, the brush brush of footfalls in the dead leaves. Then there was silence again.

  Mark strained his eyes and ears into the darkness, but it was impenetrable under the trees.

  Far below in the valley, a locomotive whistled three times, the sound carrying clearly in the stillness, and then there was the huff and puff of the train pulling out from the goods yard and settling into a steady rhythmic beat of boiler and tracks.

  Mark tried to put that sound beyond his hearing, trying to filter it out so that he could discern the closer softer sounds in the night around him.

  Something moved down the slope, he heard the silky soft whisper of it and then he saw movement, outlined against the glowing ashes of his fire, a man's booted legs stepped out of the darkness and halted beside the fire, standing completely still.

  Nearer Mark, there was another movement, a stir of impatient feet in dead leaves, and then, unmistakably, the metallic snick of gun-metal as a safety-catch was slipped to the fire position. The sound struck like electricity along Mark's nerve ends, and his breath caught in his throat. It was very close, six feet away, and now he thought he could make out the loom of the man against the stars. He was standing almost on top of Mark's bed in the hollow, staring down at the fire beside the camp.

  The man at the fire spoke now, softly, but his voice carried clearly. The bastard has gone, he's not here. He stooped to the pile of dry firewood that Mark had cut and stacked. He threw a piece on to the embers, and sparks flew upwards in a fiery spiral and the branch flamed, throwing out a circle of yellow light.

  Then he exclaimed sharply, His pack is still here, and he hefted the shotgun expectantly, glaring into the night. Remember, there's a hundred pounds on it. The words and the way the man was handling the shotgun made his intention clear beyond doubt. Mark felt the warm flood of adrenalin rush through his body, and he was poised and quivering with suppressed energy, ready to burst into explosive movement in an instant.

  The man near him moved again, and Mark heard the muted tap of metal on metal, the sound of the man's breathing also, hoarse with tension, and then suddenly and with devastating shock, bright white light split the darkness. A lantern beam swivelled and then fastened on Mark's blanket-wrapped crouching f arm.

  In the instant before he moved, Mark saw the shape of the man beyond the dazzle of the light. He carried the lantern in his right hand holding it high, at the level of his head, and the rifle was in his left hand, hanging at the trail.

  He was completely unprepared to find Mark lying almost at his feet, and his shout was wild. He's here. My God. He tried to bring up the rifle, but his right hand held the lantern. Shoot! Shoot, damn it" another voice shouted, a voice somehow familiar, and beside Mark the man dropped the lantern and began to swing up the rifle. Mark launched himself straight at him.

  He used the man's own momentum, taking the upswing of the rifle; seizing the muzzle of the barrel in one hand and the stock in the other, he smashed the weapon into the man's face with the full weight and force of his body behind it. He heard gristle and bone crunch, while the solid impact of the steel breach striking into the man's face was transmitted through the rifle into his arms, jarring him to the shoulders.

  The man went over backwards, with a cry that bubbled with the quick burst of blood into his nose and mouth.

  Mark bounded over him and ran at the slope.

  Behind him there was a chorus of shouts and cries, and then the blain, blain of a shotgun and the double glow of the muzzle flashes. Mark heard the heavy charges of shot slash into the leaves beside him, and something burned his upper arm like the sting of a wild bee.

  The light. Get the lightVThere he is, don't let him get away. A rifle fired three times in quick succession, it sounded like a . 303 Lee-Enfield. The bullet hit a rock and howled away into the sky, another thumped into a tree trunk close beside him as he ran.

  Mark fell heavily in the dark and felt his ankle go, the pain of it exploded up his leg into his groin and lower belly.

  He rolled on to his knees, and the beam of the lantern swept over, and then fastened hungrily on him. We've got him.

  A fusillade of shots, and a triumphant chorus of shouts.

  The shot and bullets shattered the air around him, one so close that the whip of it deafened one ear and he threw himself forward at the slope.

  The pain in his foot made Mark cry out. It was white hot shooting agony that burst from his ankle and broke like brilliant phosphorescent surf against the roof of his skull, but he drove himself on, soaked with sweat, swerving as he ran, sobbing and hobbling on the damaged leg.

  They were spread out in the bush behind him, and it seemed that the slope was tiring them quickly, men accustomed to riding horseback, for the cries were becoming strained and breathless, edged with worry and the first fear that their quarry might escape them.

  Mark was trying to think between the bursts of agony with which each step racked him. He thought to drop into thick cover and lie until they passed him, but they were too close for that, and they had a tracker with them, a tracker who had brought them unerringly to his camp, even in darkness. To lie down now would be surrender and suicide, but he could not go on much longer. Already the pain was threatening to swamp him, there was a sound in his head like great wings and his vision was starting to break up and star.

  He fell to his knees and vomited, gagging and choking on the acid gall of it, and within seconds the voice of the pursuit was closer and more urgent. He dragged himself up, and the lantern beam caught him squarely, a rifle bullet disrupted the air about his head so that he staggered as he blundered onwards, using the screen of bush to avoid the beam of light. Quite suddenly he felt the ground tilt upwards under his feet sharply.

  He lost his footing again, but in the same movement rolled to his feet and stumbled over a lip on to level ground where there was the sudden sugary crunch of gravel under his feet. Three stumbling paces and he came down heavily, his feet knocked out from under him and as he went down, steel smeared the skin from his outflung forearm.

  He lay panting and blinded for long seconds and heard the hunters bay like hounds down the slope. The sound goaded him and he groped with outstretched hands for purchase to push himself on to his feet once more.

  He found the cold smooth steel that had tripped him; it trembled like a livi
ng thing under his hands. It came to him then that he had climbed the embankment of the railway line and fallen across the rails of the permanent way.

  He pushed himself to his knees, and now he heard the deep panting rush in the night; suddenly the whole slope of the escarpment was lit by reflected light that swung dramatically and brightened like daylight as the locomotive he had heard leaving the goods yard in the valley came roaring out of the deep cutting that skirted the steepest part of the escarpment, before crossing the deep gorge of the river.

  The long white beam of the lamp struck him like a solid thing and he flung up his arm to shield his eyes and rolled off the rails, crouching down on the gravel on the opposite side to that of his pursuers.

  In the light of the locomotive lamp, Mark saw a stocky agile figure come up the embankment at a run. He ducked across the tracks, directly under the roaring throbbing loco.

  The dazzle of light prevented Mark seeing his face, yet there was something familiar in the way the man moved and held his shoulders.

  The engine came thundering down on Mark, and as it drew level a spurt of steam from the driving pistons scalded him with its hot breath. Then it was past and there was just the dark blurred rush of the boxcars above him.

  Mark dragged himself upright, balancing on his good foot and struck the streams of sweat from his eyes, peering upwards to judge his moment.

  When it came, he almost missed it; his hands were slippery with sweat and the railing was almost jerked from his grip even though the train had lost much of its speed and power on the slope.

  The strain in his shoulder shot an arrow of pain along his arm, and he was torn off his feet, swinging against the side of the boxcar while he grappled wildly for a grip with his other hand.

  He found purchase and clung on to the side of the boxcar, his feet still free but scrabbling for the footplates, and at that moment hands like steel claws seized his injured ankle, the full weight of a heavy body bore him down, racking him out against the side of the car.

  Mark screamed with the unbearable white-hot pain of the grip on his ankle, and it took all his strength and courage to maintain his double grip on the rail.

  His body was penduluming, as the man who held him was himself swung off the ground and then came back to skid and run in the loose gravel of the embankment, as though he were driving a dog-sledge.

  Mark twisted his head back and judged the white blob of the man's face and aimed the kick with his free foot, but it was an impossible target. At that instant the sound of the locomotive altered, as it hit the steel of the bridge where it crossed the deep gorge of the river.

  The uprights of the bridge sprang out of the rushing corridor of blackness; Mark heard the deadly hiss of the riveted steel girders flit past his head, and at the same moment the grip on his leg was released. He clung with his remaining strength and resolve to the railing of that goods truck, while the train rocketed over the bridge and ploughed on steadily up the slope, until it burst at last over the crest on to the level ground of the plateau. It picked up speed sharply, and Mark dragged himself inch by agonized inch up the railing, until at last he tumbled over the side of the open boxcar on to the load of sugar sacks and lay face downwards, sobbing for each breath, while he rode the high storm surf of pain from his leg.

  The cold roused him at last. His sweat-sodden coat was turned icy by the rush of night air and he crawled painfully forward towards the shelter of the high steel side of the car. He checked quietly and found with relief that his purse and notebook were still in his pocket.

  Suddenly he was aware that he was not alone and fresh panic gripped him.

  Who's that? he croaked, recoiling quickly into a defensive attitude.

  A voice answered quickly in deep Zulu. I mean no harm, Nkosi, and Mark felt a quick rush of relief. A man crouched against the side of the car, out of the wind, and it was clear that he was as alarmed by Mark's presence as Mark had been by his. I mean no harm, lord. I am a poor man without the money to pay to ride the steamer. My father is sick and dying in Tekweni, Durban town. Peace, grunted Mark in the same language. I am a poor man also. He dragged himself into shelter beside the Zulu, and the movement twisted his ankle and he gasped at the fresh pain. Hau! the black man's eyes caught the starlight as he peered at Mark. You are hurt. My leg, Mark grunted, trying to ease it into a more comfortable position, and the Zulu leaned forward and Mark felt his gentle hands on the ankle. You are without shoes? The man was surprised at Mark's torn and bloodied feet. I was chased by bad men. Ha, the Zulu nodded, and Mark saw in the starlight that he was a young man. The leg is bad. I do not think the bone is broken, but it is bad. He untied the small pack beside him and he took out some article of clothing. Deliberately he began to tear the material into strips. No, Mark protested sharply. Do not destroy your clothes for me. He knew how each article of western clothing, however ragged and threadbare, was treasured. It is an old shirt, said the Zulu simply and began to bind up the swollen ankle skilfully. When he had finished, it felt easier.

  Wgi ya bone, I praise you, Mark told him, and then he shivered violently as the delayed but icy fist of shock clamped down on him; he felt nausea rise in his throat and he shivered again.

  The Zulu took the blanket from around his own shoulders and placed it carefully over Mark. No. I cannot take your blanket. The blanket smelled of smoke from a dung fire, and of the Zulu himself, the earthy African tang. I cannot take it. You need it, said the Zulu firmly. You are sick. Very well, Mark muttered, as another shivering fit caught him. But it is a large blanket, big enough for two It is not fitting. Come, said Mark roughly, and the Zulu hesitated a moment longer before drawing closer and taking up a fold of the woollen blanket.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they sat on into the night, and Mark found himself dropping into a haze of exhaustion and pain, for the swollen ankle still beat like a drum. The Zulu beside him was silent, and Mark thought he slept, but as the train slowed after two hours hard run across the plateau, he whispered quietly, This is Sakabula halt. It stops here for to let the other train pass. Mark remembered the desolate siding with its double loop of line. No buildings and only a signboard to identify it. He would have lapsed once more into half sleep, but something warned him, a strange sense of danger which he had developed so acutely in France.

  He shrugged aside the blanket, and dragged himself up on his knees to peer ahead. The track came into the siding on a gentle curve, and the silver rails glittered in the lamp of the locomotive.

  Far ahead was the sign-post of the halt, stark white in the beam from the locomotive, but there was something else. Parked on the track beside the halt was a dark vehicle, a heavy lorry, and its headlights still burned. In the puddle of yellow light Mark made out the dark shapes of waiting men. Alarm jarred his bowels and clutched at his chest with a cold cramping fist.

  A motor lorry from Ladyburg could not have reached here ahead of them, but a telegraph message could have alerted I must go, Mark blurted, and with stiff fingers he hooked a sovereign out of his money belt and pressed it quickly into the Zulu's hand. There is no call for -'the man began, but Mark cut him off brusquely. Stay in peace. He dragged himself to the side of the car furthest from the waiting men, and lowered himself down the steel ladder until he hung just above the tracks.

  He waited for the locomotive to slow down, groaning and creaking and sighing steam, and then he braced himself and dropped - trying to take most of his weight on his good leg.

  He collapsed forwards as he struck the ground; ducking his head, he rolled on to his shoulders and, drawing up his knees, went down the embankment like a rubber ball.

  In the dry pale grass beside the line, he did not rise but dragged himself on elbows and belly to a low dark Thorn bush, fifty yards from the rails. Slowly he worked himself under its low branches and lay face down, gritting his teeth against the dull beat of his ankle.

  The train had halted with its van level with Mark's hiding place; the guard climbed down, flashing his lantern,
while from the head of the train a group of men, each one carrying a lantern, hurried back towards him, searching the open trucks as they came.

  Mark could see they were all armed, and their voices carried loudly as they called explanations to the driver and fireman who leaned from the cab of the locomotive. What's the trouble? You've got a fugitive from justice aboard. Who are you? We're special constables. Who's the fellow? He robbed a bank -'He killed four men in LadyburgHe jumped your train on the escarpment Don't take any chances, you fellows, the bastard is a killer -They came swiftly down the train, talking loudly and calling to each other to bolster their courage, and at the last moment Mark remembered the Zulu. He should have warned the man, but he had been too concerned with his own danger. He wanted to shout now, warn him to run, but he could not bring himself to do it. The Zulu would be all right, they would not shoot when they saw he was a black, they might slap him around a little and throw him off The Zulu darted out from between two of the boxcars from where he had climbed down on to the coupling. He was a dark flitting shape, and somebody yelled a warning.

  Immediately there was a shot.

  Mark saw the dust from the bullet fly in the lamplight, and the Zulu swerved and ran directly out into the open grassland. Half a dozen shots ripped the night, the muzzle flashes were angry red blooms in the night, but the Zulu ran on.

  One of the men on the track dropped to his knee, and Mark saw his face white and eager in the light of the torches. He aimed deliberately, and his rifle kicked up sharply.

  The Zulu collapsed in the grass without a cry, and they raced forward in an excited pack to gather around his body. Oh, Jesus, it's only a black. There was confused angry discussion and argument for five minutes, and then four of them took an arm and leg each and carried the Zulu between them to the parked lorry.