'He didn't want me to. He stopped me. I hate him. I'll kill him.
The crowd surging forward, flattening the guide ropes, two men helping
Michael hold Dirk, the rest of them ringing Sean's body.
The cries and questions.
'Where's Doc Fraser?'
'Jesus, he's badly hurt!'
'Catch that horse. Get a gun.'
'What about the bets?'
'Don't touch him. Wait .
'Got to straighten his arm.
'Get a gun. For Christ sake, get a gun.'
Then a new silence on them, their ranks opening quietly and Ruth coming
through to him running-Mbejane behind her.
'Sean.' She knelt beside him, clumsy in her pregnancy.
'Sean,' she began again, and the men about her could not look at her
face.
-Mbejane, bring him to the car,' she whispered.
He slipped the monkeY-skin cloak from his shoulder and let it drop,
stooped over Sean and lifted him. The great black muscles of his chest
and arms swelled, and he stood with his legs braced wide against the
weight.
'His arm, Nkosikazi. ' She arranged the hanging arm comfortably across
his chest.
- 'Bring him, ' she ordered and together they walked through the crowd.
Sean's head lolled against Mbejane's shoulder like that of a sleeping
child. Mbejane laid Sean gently on the back seat with his head in
Ruth's lap.
'My daddy,' Storm kept repeating, her face screwed up with horror at
the blood and her tiny body trembling like that of a frightened
rabbit.
'Will you drive us please, Michael?' Ruth looked up at him as he stood
beside the Rolls. 'Take us to Protea Street.'
With Mbejane loping alongside, the big car bumped across the field
through the throng of anxious watchers, then swung on to the main road
and moved away towards Ladyburg.
While about him the crowds scattered slowly and drifted to their
carriages, Dirk Courtney stood alone and watched the Rolls disappear in
its own blown dust.
Waves of reaction shivered up his legs and turned to heavy nausea in
his gut. The open gravel rash on his face burned like acid spilled
upon the skin.
'You'd better go in and have Doc Fraser put something on your face.'
Coming from his carriage with a heavy service revolver, Dennis Petersen
paused beside him.
'Yes,' Dirk answered dully, and Dennis walked on to where two native
grooms held Sun Dancer. Unsteadily on three legs, but quiet now, she
stood between them with her head hanging dejectedly.
Dennis touched the muzzle of the revolver to her forehead, and at the
shot she recoiled violently and dropped, shuddering.
