Leopard Hunts in Darkness - Smith Wilbur (книга бесплатный формат .TXT) 📗
"Are you sure, Craig, are you sure you want to do this book with me?"
"Yes very much indeed."
"Thank you," she said simply, and in that moment Craig knew at last, for sure, that they would be lovers. Not now, not tonight, it was still too soon but one day they would take each other. He sensed that she knew that too, for though after that they spoke very little, her cheeks darkened under her tan with shy young blood whenever he looked across at her, and she could not meet his eyes.
After dinner Joseph served coffee on the veranda, and when he left Craig switched out the lights and in darkness they watched the moon rise over the tops of the msasa trees that lined the hills acIbss the valley.
When at last she, itse to go to her bed, she moved slowly and lingered unnecessarily. She stood in front of him, the top of her head reaching to his chin, and once again said softly, "Thank you," tilted her head back, and went up on tiptoe to brush his cheek with soft lips.
But he knew she was not yet ready, and he made no effort to hold her.
y the time the last shipment of cattle arrived, the second homestead at Queen's Lynn five miles away was ready for occupation and Craig's newly hired white overseer moved in with his family. He was a burly, slow-speaking man who, despite his Afrikaner blood, had been born and lived in the country all his life. He spoke Sindebele as well as Craig did, understood and respected the blacks and in turn was liked and respected by them.
But best of all, he knew and loved cattle, like the true African he was.
With Hans Groenewald on the estate, Craig was able to concentrate on developing Zambezi Waters for tourism.
He chose a young architect who had designed the lodges on some of the most luxurious private game ranches in southern Africa, and had him fly up from Johannesburg.
The three of them, Craig, Sally-Anne and the architect, camped for a week on Zambezi Waters, and walked both banks of the Chizarira river, examining every inch of the terrain, choosing the sites of five guest-lodges, and the service complex which would support them. At Peter Fungabera's orders they were guarded by a squad of Third Brigade troopers under the command of Captain Timon Nbebi.
Craig's first impressions of this officer were confirmed as arne to know him better. He was a serious, scholarly he c young man, who spent all his leisure studying a correspondence course in political economics from the University of ether with London. He spoke English and Sindebele, tog his native Shana, and he and Craig and Sally-Anne held long conversations at night over the camp-fire, trying to arrive at some solution of the tribal enmities that were racking the country. Timon Nbebi's views were surprisingly moderate for an officer in the elite Shana brigade, and he seemed genuinely to desire a working accommodation between the tribes.
"Mr. Mellow," he said, "can we afford to live in a land divided by hatred? When I look to Northern Ireland or the Lebanon and see the fruits of tribal strife, I become afraid."
"But you are a Shana, Timon," Craig pointed out gently.
"Your allegiance surely lies with your own tribe." Tes," Timon agreed. "But first I am a patriot. I cannot ensure peace for my children with an AK 47 rifle. I cannot become a proud Shana by murdering all the Matabele. I These discussions could have no conclusion, but were made more poignant by the very necessity of an armed bodyguard even in this remote and seemingly peaceful area. The constant presence of armed men began to irk both Craig and Sally-Anne, and one evening towards the end of their stay at Zambezi Waters, they slipped their guards.
They were truly at ease with each other at last, able to share a friendly silence, or to talk for an hour without pause. They had begun to touch each other, still brief, seemingly casual contacts of which they were both, however, intensely aware. She might reach out and cover the back of his hand with hers to emphasize a point, or brush against him as they pored together over the architect's rough sketches of the lodges. Though she was certainly more agile than he was, Craig would take her elbow to help her jump across a rock-pool in the river or lean over her to point out a woodpecker's nest or a wild beehive in the treetops This day, alone at last, they found a clay anthill which rose above the levellbf the surrounding ebony and overlooked a rhino midden. It was a good stand from which to observe and photograph. Seated on it, they waited for a visit from one of the grotesque prehistoric monsters. They talked in whispers, heads close together, but this time not quite touching.
Suddenly Craig glanced down into the thick bush below them and froze. "Don't move," he whispered urgently. "Sit very still!"
Slowly she turned her head to follow his gaze, and he heard her little gasp of shock.
IWho are they?" she husked, but Craig did not reply.
There were two that he could see, for only their eyes were visible. They had come as silently as leopards, blending into the undergrowth with the skill of men who had lived all their lives in hiding.
"So, Kuphela," one of them spoke at last, his voice low but deadly. "You bring the Mashona. killer dogs to this place to hunt us."
"That is not so, Comrade Lookout," Craig answered him in a hoarse whisper. "They were sent by the government to protect me."
"You were our friend you did not need protection from US."
"The government does not know that." Craig tried to put a world of persuasion into his whisper. "Nobody knows that we have met. Nobody knows that you are here. That I swear on my life."
"Your life it may well be" Comrade Lookout agreed.
"Tell me quickly why you are here, if not to betray us."
"I have bought this land. That other white man in our party is a builder of homes. I wish to make a reserve here for tourists to visit. Like Wankie Park." They understood that. The famous Wankie National Park was also in Matabeleland, and for minutes the two guerrillas whispered together and then looked up at Craig again.
