The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации .txt) 📗
Speak, Hendrick. The Ovarnbo was as tall as Lothar, but heavier in the shoulders. His skin was dark and smooth as molten chocolate.
A good herd, Hendrick gave his opinion, forty cows, many with calf, eight young bulls. The dark turban of the warrior was wound around his proud head, and garlands of necklaces strung with trade beads hung down on to his muscular chest, but he wore riding breeches and a bandolier of ammunition over one shoulder.
And the herd bull is so old that his pads are smooth, so old that he can no longer chew his food and his dung is coarse with bark and twigs. He walks heavily on his forelegs, his ivory weighs him down, he is a bull to follow, Hendrick said, and shifted the Mauser rifle into his right hand and hefted it in anticipation.
The spoor is windblown, Lothar pointed out quietly and scratched over by insect and quail. Three days old."They are feeding, Hendrick opened his arms, spread out, moving slowly, the calves slow them down. We will have to send the horses back, I Lothar persisted. We cannot risk them in the tsetse fly. Can we catch them on foot? Lothar unknotted his scarf and wiped his face thoughtfully. He needed that ivory. He had ridden north to the Cunene as soon as his scouts had sent him word that good rains had fallen. He knew that the new growth and surface water would lure the herds across the river out of Portuguese territory.
On foot we can make them in two days, Hendrick promised, but he was a notorious optimist and Lothar teased him.
And at each night's camp we will find ten pretty Herero girls each carrying a beerpot on her head waiting U for us.
i Hendrick threw back his head and laughed his deep growling tough. Three days then, he conceded with a chuckle, and perhaps only one Herero girl, but very beautiful and obliging. Lothar pondered the chances a moment longer.
It was a good bull, and the younger bulls would all carry mature ivory, even the cows would yield twenty pounds each, and ivory was commanding 22s 6d a pound.
He had twelve of his best men with him, though two would have to be sent back with the horses, but there were still enough riflemen to do the job. If they could come up with the herd they had a good chance of killing every animal that showed ivory.
Lothar De La Rey was flat broke. He had lost his family fortune, he had been declared a traitor and an outlaw for continuing the fight after the surrender of Colonel Franke, and there was a price on his head. Perhaps this would be his very last chance to repair his fortune. He knew the British welt enough to realize that when the war was over, they would turn their attention to administering the new territories that they had won. Soon the re would be district commissioners and officers in even the remotest areas, enforcing every detail of the law and paying special attention to the illegal hunting of ivory.
The old free-booting days were probably numbered. This could be his last hunt.
Send back the horses! he ordered. Take the spoor! Lothar wore tight hunting velskoen. His men were all tempered and hardened by long years of war, and they ran on the spoor, taking it in turns to come to the front and take the point, then dropping back to rest as another man hit the front.
They entered the fly-bett in the late afternoon, and the vicious little tsetse swarmed out of the shade of the forest to plague them, settling light-footed on their backs to drive their blood-sucking probosces deep into the flesh.
The men cut switches of green leaves and brushed the tsetse off each other's backs as they ran. By nightfall they had gained two days on the herd, and the spoor was so fresh that the ant-lions had not yet built their tiny funnelshaped traps in the crisply trodden pad marks.
Darkness stopped them. They lay on the hard earth and slept like a pack of hounds, but when the moon climbed over the tops of the mopani trees, Lothar kicked them to their feet. The slant of moonlight was in their favour, outlining the spoor with a rim of shadow, and the raw trunks of the mopani trees, from which the feeding elephant had stripped the bark, shone like mirrors to guide them through the night, and when the sun rose they lengthened their stride.
An hour after sunrise they suddenly ran out of the tsetse fly-belt. The territory of these little winged killers was sharply demarcated, the border could be crossed in a hundred paces, from swarming multitudes to complete relief. The swollen itching lumps on the back of their necks were the only souvenirs of their onslaught.
Two hours before noon, they reached a good water-hole in one of the valleys of the mopani forest. They were only hours behind the herd.
Drink quickly, Lothar ordered, and waded knee-deep into the filthy water which the bathing elephant had churned to the colour of cafe all lait. He filled his hat and poured the water over his own head. His thick, redgold locks streamed down over his face, and he snorted with pleasure. The water was acrid and bitter with the salt of the elephant urine, the beasts always emptied their bladders at the shock of cold water, but the hunters drank and refilled the water-bottles.
Quickly, Lothar chivvied them, keeping his voice low, for sound carries in the bush and the herd was very close.
Baas! Hendrick signalled him urgently, and Lothar waded to the edge of the pool, and skirted it quickly. What is it?
Wordlessly the big Ovambo pointed at the ground. The spoor was perfectly imprinted in the stiff yellow clay, and it was so fresh that it overlaid that of the elephant herd water was still seeping into the indentations.
Men! Lothar exclaimed. Men have been here since the herd left. Hendrick corrected him harshly. San, not men. The little yellow cattle-killers. The Ovambo, were herdsmen, their cattle were their treasure and their deep love. The desert dogs who cut the teats off the udders of our finest cows, the traditional revenge of the San for the atrocities committed upon them, they are only minutes ahead of us. We could catch them within the hour. The sound of gunfire would carry to the herd. Lothar shared his headman's hatred of the Bushmen. They were dangerous vermin, cattle-thieves and killers. His own great-uncle had been killed during one of the great Bushmen hunts of fifty years before, a tiny bone-tipped arrow had found the chink in his rawhide armour, and family history had recorded his death in every excruciating I detail.
Even the English with their sickly sentimentality towards the black races had realized that there was no place in this twentieth-century world for the San. The standing orders of Cecil Rhodes famous British South Africa Police contained instructions that all San and wild I dogs encountered on patrol were to be shot out of hand. I The two species were considered as one.
Lothar was tempted, torn between the pleasure of performing the public service of following and destroying the pack of San, and of mending his own fortune by following the elephant.
The ivory, he decided. No, the ivory is more important than culling a few yellow baboons Baas, here! Hendrick had moved around the edge of the pool and stopped abruptly. His tone and the alert set of his head made Lothar hurry to him, and then sit quickly on his heels, the better to examine this new set of prints.
Not San! Hendrick whispered. Too big But a woman, Lothar replied. The narrow foot and small shapely toe marks were unmistakable. A young woman. The toe marks were deeper than the heel, a springy step, a young step.
It is not possible! Hendrick sank down beside him and without touching the print traced the arched portion between ball and heel. Lothar sat back and shook his wet dangling locks again.
The black people of Africa who go barefooted from their very first step leave a distinctive flat imprint.
A wearer of shoes, Hendrick said softly.
