earth.
Mark marvelled once again that the Zulu could run a spoor in this light over such ground, where he could see no mark or sign of the lions passing.
There was a single gun shot, so faint that Mark thought he might have imagined it, but Pungushe stopped instantly and signalled him to rein in the mule.
They stood and listened intently, and suddenly there was a distant popping fusillade, ten, eleven rifle-shots and then silence again.
Pungushe turned and looked at Mark expressionlessly.
The silence was complete, even the morning bird chorus was stilled by the gunfire for a moment. Then as the silence persisted, a troop of little brown francolin started chirruping again on the edge of the ploughed lands. Go on! Mark nodded to Pungushe, trying to keep his face as expressionless, but his voice shook with outrage.
They were too late. The last lions south of the Usutu were dead. He felt sick with helpless anger.
They did not notice Mark until he was right up to them.
They were too excited, too intent on their work.
There were eight white men, all heavily armed and dressed in rough hunting clothes, with two Zulu grooms holding the horses.
In a trampled opening among the mimosa trees lay the half-eaten carcass of a red and wite ox. However, this was not what was engaging their attention. They were grouped in a tight circle beyond the ox, and their voices were raucous, raised in rough jest and cheerful oath.
Mark dismounted and handed the reins to Pungushe. He walked slowly towards the group, dreading what he would find, but he stopped again as one of the men looked up and saw him. He recognized Mark instantly. Ah, warden! Dirk Courtney laughed, tossing that splendid head of glossy curls. We are doing your job for you. The laughter was sly and spiteful, the malice so apparent that Mark knew he was thinking of the bribe that Mark had accepted and then turned against him. Here is one that you can cross off your report, Dirk chuckled again, and gestured for his men to stand aside.
The circle opened and Mark stepped into the opening. The men around him were still red-faced and garrulous, and he could smell the stale liquor on them. Gentlemen, may I present the newly appointed warden of Chaka's Gate proclaimed area. Dirk stood opposite him, across the circle, with one hand thrust carelessly into the pocket of his chamois-leather jacket, a hand-made double barrelled . 450 elephant rifle by Gibbs of London tucked into the crook of his elbow.
The lion lay on its side with legs extended. He was an old, scarred torn, so lean and rangy that each rib showed clearly through the short tan hair. There were four bullet-holes in the body, the one behind the shoulder would have raked both lungs, but another heavy bullet had shattered the skull. The mouth hung open slackly and a little blood- stained saliva still oozed out on to the lolling pink tongue. Congratulations, gentlemen, Mark nodded, and only Dirk Courtney caught the irony in his voice. Yes, he agreed. The sooner we clear this area and make it safe for settlement the better for all. There was a hearty chorus of agreement and one of them produced a brown bottle from his back pocket, and passed it from hand to hand, each in turn pointing its base briefly heavenwards, then exclaiming appreciatively and smacking their lips. What about the lioness? Mark asked quietly, refusing his turn at the bottle. Don't worry about her, one of them assured him. She's down already. I hit her clean in the shoulder. We are just giving her a chance to stiffen up, before we go after her to finish her off. And he drew his sheath knife and began to skin out the carcass of the lion, while his comrades passed loud comment and advice.
Mark walked back to Pungushe who squatted patiently at Trojan's head. The lioness is wounded, but has run. I have seen the spoor, Pungushe nodded, and pointed it out with his eyes, not moving his head. How bad is she hit? I do not know yet. I must see how she settles to run before judging. Take the spoor, said Mark. Let us go quietly, without alerting these mighty hunters. They drifted away from the clearing, leading the mule casually, Mark following a dozen paces behind the Zulu.
Five hundred yards further on, Pungushe stopped and spoke quietly. She is hit in the right shoulder or leg, but I do not think the bone has gone, for she touches with every second pace.
She goes well on three legs, and at first there was a little blood, but it dries quickly. Perhaps she bleeds inside! Mark asked.
If that is so, we will find her within a short while dead, Pungushe shrugged. All right. Mark swung up into the saddle. Let us go swiftly, that we may outrun these others, none of them will be able to follow across such hard ground.
He was too late. Anders! Dirk Courtney shouted, riding up at the head of his band. What the hell do you think you are doing? My job, Mark answered. I'm following a wounded beast. We are coming with you. Mark glanced at Pungushe, and a silent accord flashed between them, then he turned back to the group. You all realize the danger involved? These animals have probably been hunted before, and my tracker thinks the lioness is only lightly hit. There was a little sobering and hesitation, but all eight of them rode on after Pungushe. He went hard, loping away, minza umhlabathi, stretching the horses into an easy canter and after the first hour Dirk Courtney swore bad- temperedly. I don't see any blood. The blood has dried, Mark told him. The wound has closed. The contents of the brown bottle were long ago exhausred. Red faces were sweating heavily in the rising heat, eyes were bloodshot and high good humour turning to headaches and woolly tongues; none of them had remembered to bring a water bottle.
Two of them turned back.
An hour later Dirk Courtney snarled suspiciously, This bloody nigger is giving us a bum run. Tell him I'll take the horse-whip to him. The lioness is going stronglyI don't believe it. I can't see any spoor. Pungushe stopped abruptly, motioned them to stay and went forward cautiously into a low thicket of waterbessie scrub. I've had a guts full of this, muttered one of the hunters miserably.
The too. I've got work to do. Three more of them turned back, and those that remained sat their restless horses until Pungushe emerged from the thicket and beckoned them forward.
In the heart of the thicket, impressed deeply into the soft mound of a mole heap he showed them the umnistakable pad of a lioness. It headed relentlessly southward. All right, Dirk Courtney acknowledged. He's still on the spoor. Tell him to keep going. An hour after noon, the lioness led them on to a low unbroken cap of solid grey granite, and Pungushe sat down wearily. His muscles shone in the sunlight with sweat, as though they had been oiled. He looked up at Mark on the mule and shrugged with an expressive gesture of helplessness. Dead spoor, said Mark. Gone away. Dirk Courtney pulled up his horse's head with a cruel jerk of the curb, and snapped at Mark'Anders. I want to speak to you. He trotted away out of earshot of the group, and Mark followed him.
