smashed the P. 14 into his chest. Then he dried in the fierce glare of the noon sun. It warmed the last chills of the fever from his body, and he climbed back up to the shelter with a spring and lightness in his step.
in the morning he found that the beer pot and food bowl had disappeared, and he sensed somehow that the gesture was deliberate and carried the message that, as far as his mysterious benefactor was concerned, he was able to fend for himself again, and that he had begun to outlive his welcome.
Mark gathered his possessions, finding that all his clothing had been dried out and stuffed into the canvas pack.
His bandolier of ammunition was there also and the bonehandled hunting knife was in its sheath, but his food Supply was down to one can of baked beans.
He opened it and ate half, saved the rest for his dinner left the pack in the back of the shelter, and set out for the far side of the basin.
It took him almost two hours to find the killing ground, and he recognized it at last only by the dead tree with its twisted arthritic limbs. The ground here was lower than he had imagined, and had been swept by the flood waters, the grass was flattened against the earth, as though brilliantined and combed down, some of the weaker trees had been uprooted and swept away and, in the lower branches of the larger stronger trees, the flood debris clung to mark the high-water level.
Mark searched for some evidence of the fight, but there was none, no body nor abandoned rifle, it was as though it had never been. . . Mark began to doubt his own memory until he slipped his hand into the front of his shirt and fingered the tender bruising.
He searched down the track of the waters, following the direction of the swept grass for half a mile. When he saw vultures sitting in the trees and squabbling noisily in the scrub, he hurried forward, but it was only a rhino calf, too young to have swum against the flood, drowned and already beginning to putrefy.
Mark walked back to the dead tree and sat down to smoke the last cigarette in his tin, relishing every draw, stubbing it out half-finished and carefully returning the butt to the flat tin with its picture of the black cat, and the trade mark Craven A.
He was about to stand when something sparkled in the sunlight at his feet, and he dug it out of the still damp earth with his finger.
It was a brass cartridge case, and when he sniffed at it, there was still the faint trace of burned cordite. Stamped into the base was the lettering Mauser Fabriken. 9 mm and he turned it thoughtfully between his: fingers.
The correct thing was to report the whole affair to the nearest police station, but twice already he had learned the folly of calling attention to himself while some remorseless enemy hunted him from cover.
Mark stood up and went down the gentle slope to the edge of the swamp pools. A moment longer he examined the brass cartridge case, then he hurled it far out into the black water.
At the rock shelter he hefted his pack on to his shoulders, bouncing from the knees to settle the straps. Then, as he crossed to the entrance, he saw the footprints in the fine cold ash dust of the fire. Broad, bare-footed, he recognized them instantly.
On an impulse he slipped the sheathed hunting knife off his belt, and laid it carefully exposed in an offertory position at the base of the shelter wall; then, with a stub of charcoal from the dead fire, he traced two ancient symbols on the rock above it, the symbols that old David had told him stood for The -bowed-slave-who-bears-gifts. He hoped Pungushe, the poacher, would come again to the rock shelter and that he could interpret the symbols and accept the gift.
On the slope of the south butt of Chaka's Gate, Mark paused again and looked back into the great sweep of wilderness, and he spoke aloud, softly, because he knew that if the old man were listening, he would hear, no matter how low the voice. All he had learned and experienced here had hardened his resolve to come to the truth and to unravel the mystery and answer the questions that still hid the facts of the old man's death. I'll come again, some day. Then he turned away towards the south, lengthening his stride and swinging into the gait just short of a trot that the Zulus call Winza umhlabathi- or eat the earth greedily.
The suit felt unfamiliar and confining on his body, and the starched collar was like a slave's ring about Mark's throat, the pavement hard and unyielding to his tread and the clank of the trams and the honk and growl and clash of train and automobile were almost deafening after the great silences of the bush, and yet there was excitement and stimulation in the hurrying tide of human beings that swirled around him, strident and colourful and alive.
The tropical hot-house of Durban town encouraged all growth of life, and the diversity of human beings that thronged her streets never failed to intrigue Mark; the Hindu women in their shimmering saris of gaudy silk with jewels in their pierced nostrils and golden sandals on their feet; the Zulus, moon-faced and tall, their wives with the conical ochre headdresses of mud and plaited hair that they wore for a lifetime, bare-breasted under their cloaks, big stately breasts fruitful and full as those of the earth mother, to which their infants clung like fat little leeches, and the short leather aprons high on their strong glossy dark thighs swinging as they walked; the men in loincloths muscled and dignified, or wearing the cast-off rags of Western clothing with the same jaunty panache and self- conscious assurance that the mayor wore his robes of office; the white women, remote and cool and unhurried, followed by a servant as they shopped or encapsuled in their speeding vehicles; their men in dark suits and the starched collars better suited to the climes of their native north, many of them yellowed with fever and fat with rich foods as they hurried about their affairs, their faces set in that small perpetual frown, each creating for himself an isolation of the spirit in the press of human bodies.
It was strange to be back in the city. Half of Mark's soul hated it while the other half welcomed it, and he hurried to find the human company for which he had sometimes hungered these long weeks just past. Good God, my dear old sport. Dicky Lancome, with a red carnation in his button-hole, hurried to meet him across the showroom floor. I am delighted to have you back. I was expecting you weeks ago. Business has been deadly slow, the girls have been ugly, tiresome and uncooperative; the weather absolutely frightful, you have missed nothing, old son, absolutely nothing. He held Mark off at arm's length and surveyed him with a fond and brotherly eye. My God, you look as though you've been on the Riviera, brown as a pork sausage but not as fat. God, I do declare you've lost weight again -'and he patted his own waistcoat which was straining its buttons around the growing bulge of his belly. I must go on a diet, which reminds me, lunch-time! You will be my guest, old boy, I insist, I absolutely insist. Dicky began his diet with a plate piled high with steaming rice, coloured to light gold and flavoured with saffron; over this was poured rich, chunky mutton curry, redolent with Hindu herbs and garnished with mango chutney, ground coconuts, grated Bombay Duck and half a dozen other sauces, and as the turbaned Indian waiter offered him the silver tray of salads, he loaded his side plate enthusiastically without interrupting his questioning.
God, I envy you, old boy. Often promised myself that.
One man against the wilderness, pioneer stuff, hunting and fishing for the pot. He waved the waiter away and
