Cry Wolf Part 10

"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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d!" he cried. "What in the name of Peter and all the saints is that?" n.o.body could answer him, in fact n.o.body 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 a.s.sembled 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 carca.s.ses 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 gla.s.s 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 men 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 s.h.a.green, 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 pa.s.sed close enough to the kidneys to bruise both of them severely, so now, when the lion stopped, arched his back and crouched to pa.s.s 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 ma.s.sive shock of impact, the lion had rolled to his feet and flattened into a dead streaking run, jinking away below the level of the coa.r.s.e 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 th.o.r.n.y scrub he mowed down, and, cursing at the p.r.i.c.ks 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 c.u.mbersome 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 h.o.a.rd, 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 the 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 compa.s.s 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 talc.u.m 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 pa.s.sage 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 gra.s.slands 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 gra.s.s the gra.s.s was so amongst the low th.o.r.n.y 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 h.o.a.r 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 gra.s.s, the four vehicles roared forward joyously, b.u.mping 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 and gathered stiffly in a small group on the lip of the ravine, "There is Ethiopia, two hundred yards away. It's two years since last I stood upon the soil of my own country," said Gregorius, his big dark eyes catching the last of the light.

He stopped himself and explained. "The river rises in the high country near Addis Ababa and comes down one of the gorges into the lowland. A short distance downstream from here it ends in a shallow swamp. There its waters sink away into the desert sand and disappear.

Here we are standing on French territory still, ahead of us is Ethiopia, there far to the north is Italian Eritrea."

"How far is it to the Wells of Chaldi?"Gareth interrupted.

That for him was the end of the rainbow and the pot of gold.

Gregorius shrugged. "Another forty miles, perhaps."

"How do we get across this lot?" Jake muttered, staring down into the dim depths of the ravine where the shallow pools still glowed dull silver.

"Upstream there is an old camel route to J ibuti," Gregorius told him. "We might have to dig out the banks a little, but I think we'll be able to cross."

"I hope you are right," Gareth told him. "It's a long way home, if we have to go back." The view of water that she had glimpsed in the depths of the ravine haunted Vicky Camberwell during the night. She dreamed of foaming mountain streams and spilling waterfalls, of moss-covered boulders, swaying green ferns about a deep cold pool, and she awoke, restless and tired, with sweat plastering her hair to her neck and forehead. There was just the first promise of dawn in the sky.

She thought that she was the only one awake and she crept into the vehicle and fetched her towel and toilet bag, but as she jumped down to the ground she heard the clink of spanner on steel and she saw Jake stooped over the engine compartment of his car.

She tried to sneak away before he saw her, but he straightened suddenly.

"Where are you going?" he demanded. "As if I didn't know. Listen, Vicky, I don't like you wandering around out of camp on your own."

"Jake Barton, I feel so filthy I can smell myself. Nothing and n.o.body is going to stop me getting down to the river." Jake hesitated. "I'd better come down with you."

"This isn't the Folies Berg&e, my dear," she laughed, and he had learned enough not to argue with this lady. He watched her hurry to the lip of the ravine and disappear down the steep slope with vague misgivings, for which he could find no real substance.

The earth and loose stone rolled easily underfoot, and Vicky restrained her impatience and picked her way carefully towards the water, until she reached a narrow game trail that tipped down at a more comfortable angle, and she followed it with relief. Her footsteps, falling silently on to the soft earth, followed faithfully the string of round five- toed pad marks, larger than a saucer, which had been plugged deeply by the heavy weight of the animal that had made them. Vicky did not look down, however, and if she had, it was doubtful if she would have recognized what she was seeing. The faintly reflected light of the pools drew her like a beacon.

When she reached the bottom of the ravine, she found that the river was so shrunken that it was no longer flowing.

The pools were shallow, stagnant and still warm from the previous day's sun. The storm waters of the awash had cut down through the softer upper layers of earth until they exposed the sheet of hard black ironstone that formed the floor of the ravine.

Vicky stripped off her sweat-damp clothing and stepped down into one of the shallow pools, sighing with the pleasurable feel of water on her skin. She sat waist-deep and scooped handfuls of water over her face and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, washing away the dust and salt-sticky sweat of the desert.

Then she waded to the edge of the pool and selected a bottle of shampoo from her bag. The water was so soft that she swiftly worked up a thick coating of white suds that covered her head and ran down her neck on to her bare shoulders.

She rinsed the soap off and bound the towel around her wet head like a turban, before kneeling in the shallow pool and soaping her entire body, delighting at the slipperiness of the suds and their fragrance. By the time she was finished, the light had strengthened and she knew that the others would be up and chafing to resume the march.

She stepped out on to the flat black rock that surrounded the pool and stood for a moment to feel the first gentle movement of the morning breeze against her naked skin, and suddenly she had a strong sensation that she was being watched. She, turned swiftly, half crouching, her hands flying instinctively to cover her bosom and her groin.

The eyes that watched her were of a savage golden colour, and the pupils were glistening black slits. The stare was steady and unblinking.

The huge reddish-gold beast crouched on a level ledge of rock, halfway up the far bank of the ravine. It lay with its forepaws drawn up under its chin, and there was a sense of deadly stillness about it that was chilling, although Vicky did not readily recognize what she was seeing.

Then very slowly the dark ruff of the mane came erect, swelling out around the head and exaggerating its already impressive bulk. Then the tail twitched and began to slash back and forth with the steady beat of a metronome.

Suddenly Vicky knew what it was. She heard again in her imagination the echoes of that terrible sound in the night and she screamed.

Jake had just completed the adjustments he was making to the ignition of his car and closed the engine cowling. He picked up the fluted bottle of Scrubbs Cloudy Ammonia to dissolve the grease from his hands. At that instant he heard the scream and he began to run without a conscious thought.

The scream was so high and shrill, an expression of mortal terror, that Jake's heart raced in sympathy and when the scream came again, if anything shriller still, he leaped the bank and went sliding and running down the steep slope of the ravine.

It was only seconds from when he heard the first scream until he came skidding and sliding down on to the rocky floor of the ravine beside the pool.

He saw the naked girl crouching at the edge of the pool, both hands pressed to her mouth. Her body was pale and slim, with the small tight round b.u.t.tocks of a lad and long graceful legs.

"Vicky," he shouted. "What is it?" And she turned quickly to him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swinging heavily at the movement, round and white with large pink nipples standing out tightly with cold and shock. Even in the extremity of the moment, he could not help but glance down at the smooth velvety plain of her belly and the fluffy dusky triangle at its base. Then she was running towards him on those long coltish legs, and her face was deadly white, and the speckled green eyes huge and swimming with rampant terror.

"Jake," she cried. "Oh G.o.d, Jake," and then he saw movement beyond her, halfway up the bank of the water course.

The wound had stiffened during the night, almost paralysing the lion's hindquarters, and the torn entrails were leaking poison and infection into the belly cavity. It had slowed the animal so drastically that the natural reflexive anger which the sight of a human form had roused was not strong enough to precipitate the charge.

However, the sound of the human voice immediately invoked memories of the hunters who had inflicted this terrible aching agony "and the anger flared higher.

Then suddenly there was another of the hated two-legged figures, more noise and movement, all of this enough to counter the stiffness and paralysing lethargy. The lion rose slightly out of his crouch and he growled.

Jake ran four paces to meet Vicky and she tried to throw her arms about his neck for protection, but he avoided the embrace and grasped her upper arm with his left hand, his fingers digging so deeply into her flesh that the pain steadied her. Using the impetus of her run, he swung her on towards the path that climbed the slope.

"Run," he shouted. "Keep running." And he turned back to face the crippled animal as it launched itself from the ledge into the bed of the river.

It was only then that Jake realized that he still carried a full bottle of Scrubbs Ammonia in his hand. The lion came bounding swiftly through the shallow stagnant pool towards him. Despite the wounds, it followed with lithe and sinuous menace. it was so close that he could see each stiff white whisker in the curled upper lip and hear the rattle of air in its throat. He let it come on, for to turn and run was suicide.

At the last moment he reared back like a baseball pitcher and hurled the bottle. It was an instinctive action, using the only weapon however puny that was at hand.

The bottle flew straight at the lion's head, catching it in the direct centre of its broad forehead as it lunged smoothly upwards towards the ledge where Jake stood.

The bottle exploded in a burst of sparkling gla.s.s splinters and a creamy gush of the pungent liquid. It filled both the lion's eyes, blinding it instantly, and the stench of concenits open mouth and flaring nostrils killed trated ammonia in its sense of smell and shocked its whole system so violently that it missed its footing and fell, roaring with the agony of scalded eyeb.a.l.l.s and burning throat, into the shallow water where it rolled helplessly on its back.

Jake ran forward, seizing the few seconds of advantage he had gained. He stooped to pick up a water-worn ironstone boulder the shape and size of a football, and swung it up above his head with both hands.

As he poised himself on the ledge above the pool, the lion recovered its balance and came up at him blindly. Jake swung the boulder down from on high and, like a cannon ball, it smashed into the back of the animal's neck, where the sodden mane covered the juncture of skull and vertebrae, crushing both so that the dreadfully mutilated beast collapsed and rolled on to its side, half in the water and half on the black rock ledge.

For long seconds Jake stood over it, panting with exertion and reaction, then he leaned forward and touched with his fingertip the long pale lashes that fringed the lion's open staring golden eye.