went in amongst them. Stooping like a reaper he worked through them
towards the lip of a narrow ravine, gathering the flowers into posies
and binding the stems together with grass. Finally, he reached the
ravine and straightened up to rest his aching back.
The ravine was narrow, he could have jumped across it with little
effort-but it was deep. He peered down into it without much
interest.
The cleft was floored with rainwashed sand, and his interest quickened
as he made out the half-buried bones of a large animal. But what made
him climb down into the ravine was not the bones, but the bulky leather
object entangled with them.
Sliding on his backside the last few feet of the descent he reached the
bottom, and examined his find. A leather mule pack double pouches, and
the buckles of the harness almost rusted away. He tugged the whole lot
loose from the sand and was surprised at the weight of it.
The leather was dry and brittle, faded almost white with exposure and
the locks of the pouches were rusted solid. With his knife he slit the
flap of one pouch and out of it cascaded a stream of sovereigns.
They fell into the sand, clinking upon each other in a heap that
glittered with merry golden smiles.
Sean stared at them in disbelief. He dropped the pack and squatted on
his haunches over the pile. Timidly he picked up one of the discs and
examined the portrait of the old President, before lifting the coin to
his mouth and biting down upon it. His teeth sank into the soft metal
and he removed it from his mouth.
'Well, damn. me sideways,' he invited, and he laughed out loud.
Rocking back on his haunches and lifting his face to the sky he roared
out his jubilation and his relief. It went on and on until his
laughter dried suddenly, and he sobered.
Cupping a double handful of the gold he asked it: 'Now, where the hell
did you come from?' And his answer was in the grim face embossed upon
each coin. Boer Gold.
'And who do you belong to?'
The answer was the same, and he let the coins trickle through his
fingers. Boer Gold.
-The hell with it! he growled angrily. 'Starting this minute it's
Courtney Gold.' And he began to count it.
As his fingers worked so did his brain. He prepared his case against
his own conscience. They owed him the balance outstanding on a train
of wagons filled with ivory, they owed him his deposits in the
Volkskaas Bank, they owed him for a shrapnel wound in the leg and a
bullet in the belly, they owed him for three years of hardship and
danger, and they owed him for a friend. As he stacked the sovereigns
into piles of twenty he considered his case, found it good and proven,
justified it and gave judgement in his own favour.
'I find for the appellant,' he announced, and concentrated his whole
attention on the counting. An hour and a half later he reached the
total.
There was a huge pile of coins upon the flat rock he had used as a
desk. He lit a cheroot and the smoke he drew into his lungs made him
