hundred ten pound notes. He had been prepared to go that high for the report -no, he corrected himself, I would have been prepared to go further, much further. Come, he smiled. Here it is. And he watched Mark Anders rise from the chair and cross the room, pick up the envelopes and slip them into his pocket.
Sean Courtney's beard bristled like the quills on the back of an angry porcupine, and his face turned slowly to the colour of a badly fired brick. Good God! he growled, as he stared at the three envelopes on his desk top. The seals had been carefully split and the contents arranged in three purple blue fans of crisp treasury bills. You took his money? Yes, sir, Mark agreed, standing in front of the desk like a wayward pupil before the head pedagogue. Then you have the brass to come to me with it? Sean made a gesture as though to sweep the piles of bills on to the floor. Take the filthy stuff away from me. Your first lesson, General. The money is always important, Mark said quietly. Yes, but what must I do with this? As patron of the Society for the Protection of African Wildlife, your duty would be to send the donor a letter of acceptance and thanks for his generous donation What on earth are you talking about? Sean stared at him. What society is this? I have just formed it, sir, and elected you patron. I am sure we will be able to draw up a suitable memorandum of objects and rules of membership, but what it boils down to is a campaign to make people aware of what we are going to do, to gather public support, Mark spoke rapidly, pouring it all out, and Sean listened with the brick colour of his face slowly returning to normal, and a slow but delighted grin pulling his beard out of shape. We'll use this money for advertisements in the press to make people aware of their heritage, Mark raced on, ideas tumbling out of him, and immediately spawning new ideas, while Sean listened, his grin becoming a spasmodic chuckle that shook his shoulders, and then finally a great peal of laughter, that went on for many minutes. Enough! at last he bellowed delightedly. Sit down, Mark, that's enough for now. And he groped for a handkerchief to mop his eyes and blow the great hooked beak of a nose like a trumpet, while he recovered his self-control. It's indecent, he chortled. Positively sacrilegious! You have no respect for money at all. It's un-natural. Oh, yes, I have, but money is only a means, not an end, sir, Mark laughed also, for the General's mirth was contagious. my God, Mark. You are a prize, you really are. Where ever did I find you? He gave one last chuckle, and then grew serious. He drew a clean sheet of paper from the sidedrawer and began to make notes. As though I haven't enough work already, he growled. Now let's draw up a list of objects for this bloody society of yours. They worked for nearly three hours, and Ruth Courtney had to come and call them to the dinner table. In a minute, dear, Sean told her, and placed a paperweight on the thick pile of notes he had made; he was about to rise when he frowned at Mark.
'You have chosen a dangerous enemy for yourself, young man, he warned him.
Yes, I know, Mark nodded soberly.
You say that with feeling. He stared at Mark questioningly. Mark hesitated a moment and then he began. You know my grandfather, John Anders, you spoke of him once before. Sean nodded, and sank back into the padded leather chair. He had land, eight thousand acres, he called it Andersland Sean nodded again, and Mark went on carefully, telling it all without embellishment, stating the facts, and when he had to guess or make conjecture, stating that it was so.
Again Ruth came to call them to dinner, just when Mark was describing the night on the escarpment when the gunmen had come to his camp. She was about to insist they come before the meal spoiled, but then she saw their faces and came silently to stand behind Sean's chair and listen, her face becoming paler and more set.
He told them about Chaka's Gate how he had searched for his grandfather's grave and the men who had come to hunt him, and when he had finished the story they were all silent, until at last Sean roused himself, sighed, a gusty, sorrowful sound, before he spoke. Why didn't you report this? Report what? Who would have believed me? You could have gone to the police. I have not a shred of evidence that points to Dirk Courtney, except my own absolute certainty. And he dropped his eyes. It's such a wild, unlikely story that I was afraid to tell even you, until this moment. Yes, Sean nodded. I can see that. Even now I don't want to believe it is true. I'm sorry, said Mark simply. I know it's true, but I don't want to believe it. Sean shook his head, and lowered his chin on to his chest. Ruth, standing behind him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Oh God, how much more must I suffer for him?
he whispered, then lifted his head again. You will be in even greater danger now, Mark. I don't think so, General. I am under your protection, and he knows itGod grant that is enough, Sean muttered, but what can we do against him? How can we stop this, Sean paused, seeking the word, and then hissed it savagely, this monster. There is no evidence, Mark said. Nothing to use against him. He has been too clever for that by far There is evidence, said Sean with complete certainty. If all this is true, then there is evidence, somewhere. Trojan the mule's broad back felt like a barrel under Mark, and the sun beat through his shirt so that his sweat rose in dark damp patches between his shoulder blades and at his armpits, as he jogged down the bank of the Bubezi with Spartan, the second heavily burdened mule, following him on a lead rein.
In the river bed on one of the sugary white sandbanks, he let the mules wade in knee-deep and begin to drink, sucking up the clear water noisily so that he could feel the animal's belly swelling between his knees.
He pushed his hat on to the back of his head and wiped away the drops from his brow with one thumb as he looked up at the portals of Chaka's Gate. They seemed to fall out of the sky like cascades of stone, sheer and eternal, so vast and solid that they dwarfed the land and the river at their feet.
The double pannier on the back of the lead mule was the less onerous of the burdens that he had brought with him from the teeming reaches of civilization. He had brought also a load of guilt and remorse, the sorrow of a lost love, and the galling of duty left unperformed. But now, beneath the cliffs of Chaka's Gate, he felt his burden lightening, and his shoulders gathering strength.
Something indefinable seemed to reach out to him from across the Bubezi River, a feeling of destiny running its appointed course, or more a sense of home -coming. Yes, he thought, with sudden joy, I am coming home at last.
Abruptly Mark was in a hurry. He pulled up Trojan's reluctant head, with water still pouring from his loose rubbery lips, and kicked him forward into the swirling green eddy of the river, slipping from the saddle to swim beside him when he lost his footing.
As the big soup-plate hooves touched bottom, he threw his leg back across the saddle and rode up the far bank, his breeches clinging to his thighs and his sodden shirt streaming water.
Suddenly, for the first time in a week, and for no good reason, he laughed, a light unstrained burst of laughter that hung about Men like a shimmering halo long afterwards.
The sound was so low, and the hooves of Trojan the grey mule were plugging into the soft earth along the river with a rhythmic chuffing sound, so that Mark was not sure of what he had heard.
He reined Trojan to a stop and listened. The silence was so complete that it seemed to hiss like static, and when a wood dove gave its melodious and melancholy whistle a mile along the river, it seemed close enough to touch.
Mark shook his head, and flicked the reins. At the first hoof fall, the sound came again, and this time there was no mistaking it. The hair down the nape of Mark's neck prickled, and he straightened quickly out of his comfortable saddle slouch. He had heard that sound only once before, but in circumstances that made certain he would never
