Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 31
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in the lantern light.
"Sweet and merciful Mother of God!" he cried. "What in the name of
Peter and all the saints is that?" Nobody could answer him, in fact
nobody showed any interest in the question whatever, and the Count had
to move swiftly to catch up with his armed escort which had already
started back towards the bivouac in a sprightly fashion.
Once within the security of his own brightly lit tent, and surrounded
by his hastily assembled staff, the Count's pulse rate returned to
normal, and one of his officers suggested that the native
Eritrean guides be sent for and questioned on the terrible night sounds
that had plunged the entire battalion into consternation.
"Lion?" said the Count, and then again, "Lion!" Instantly the
formless terrors of the night evaporated, for by this time the first
light of dawn was gleaming in the east, and the Count's breast swelled
with the fierce instincts of the huntsman.
"It appears, my Colonel, that the beasts will be feeding on the
antelope carcasses that you left lying out on the desert," the
interpreter explained. "The smell of blood has attracted them."
aGi no snapped the Count. "Fetch the Mannlicher and have the driver
bring the Rolls-Royce to my tent immediately." My Colonel,"
protested
Major Luigi Castelani. "The battalion, by your own orders, is to march
at dawn."
"I Countermanded!" snapped the Colonel. Already he imagined the
magnificent trophy skin spread before his Louis XIV desk in the library
of his castle. He would have it prepared with wide open jaws,
flashing white fangs and fierce yellow glass eyes. The picture of open
jaws and fangs suddenly reminded him with considerable force of his
nerve racking brush with the beisa oryx. "Major," he ordered, "I
want twenty men to accompany me, a truck to transport them, full battle
order, and one hundred rounds of ammunition each." The Count was not
about to take any more silly chances.
The lion was a fully mature male, six years of age, and, like most of
the desert strain of leo panthers, he was much larger than the forest
lions. He stood well over three feet high at the shoulder, and he
weighed in excess of four hundred pounds. The late sun enhanced the
sleek reddish ochre of his skin and transformed his mane into a glowing
halo of gold. The mane was dense and long, framing the broad flattened
head, reaching far back beyond the shoulder, and hanging so low under
his chest and belly as almost to sweep the earth.
He walked stiffly, head held very low and swinging heavily from side to
side with each laborious step. His breathing came with a low explosive
grunt at each exhalation, and occasionally he stopped and swung his
head to snap irritably at the buzzing blue cloud of flies that swarmed
about the wound in his flank. Then he would lick at the small dark
hole from which pale watery blood oozed steadily.
The long pink tongue curled out and, rough as shagreen, rasped against
the supple hide. The constant licking had away the hair around the
wound, giving it a pale worn shaven appearance.
The 9.3 Marmlicher bullet had caught him at the instant he had begun to
turn away to run. It had angled in from two inches behind the last
rib, striking with a force of nine tons that had bowled the lion down,
rolling him in a cloud of pale dust. The copper-jacketed bullet was
tipped with soft expanding lead, and it mushroomed as it raked the
belly cavity, lacerating the bowels and tearing four large abdominal
veins. The slug had passed close enough to the kidneys to bruise both
of them severely, so now, when the lion stopped, arched his back and
crouched to pass a spattering of bloodstained urine, he groaned like
the roll of drums at an execution. Then, finally, the bullet had
struck the arch of the pelvic girdle and lodged there against the
bone.
After the first massive shock of impact, the lion had rolled to his
feet and flattened into a dead streaking run, jinking away below the
level of the coarse scrub. Although a dozen more bullets had thrown up
soft jumping spurts of dust around him, one so close as to throw grit
into his eyes, not another touched him.
There had been seven lions in the pride. Another older, heavier,
darker-maned male, two younger daintier breeding females, one with her
lithe-wasted body thickened with the heavy bearing of young in her
womb, and three immature animals still dappled with their cub spots and
boisterous as kittens.
The younger male was the only one to survive that long shattering roll
of rifle fire, and now as he moved on he felt the thick jelly-like
weight of congealing blood sloshing back and forth across his belly
cavity at each step. There was a heavy lethargy slowing his
movements,
but thirst drove him onwards. Thirst was a scalding agony that
consumed his whole body, and the lower pools of the Awash River were a
dozen miles ahead.
In the dawn Priscilla the Pig was heavily bogged down on her belly with
all four wheels helpless in the porridge of pale salt mire below the
crust of the pan.
Jake stripped to the waist and swung the long two handed axe
relentlessly, while the others gathered the piles of thorny scrub he
mowed down, and, cursing at the pricks and scratches, carried them out
across the snowy surface of the pan.
Jake worked with a self punishing fury, angry with his lack of
attention which had bogged the car and was going to cost them a day at
the least. It was no valid excuse that exhaustion and heat had clouded
his judgement that he had not recognized the treacherous smooth white
surface of the pan for Gregorius had warned him specifically of this
hazard. He worked with the axe from an hour before sunrise until the
heat had climbed with the sun and a small mountain of cut branches
stood beside the car.
Then Gareth helped him build a firm foundation of flat stones and
thicker branches under the engine compartment of the car. They had to
lie on their sides and grovel in the dust to get the big screw jack set
up on the base and they slowly lifted the front of the car, turning the
handle between them.
As the front wheels rose an inch at a time, Vicky and Gregorius packed
the wiry scrub branches under them. It was slow and laborious work
which had to be repeated at the rear of the car.
it was past noon before Priscilla the Pig stood forlornly balanced on
four piles of compacted branches but her belly was clear of the surface
"What do we do now?" Gareth asked. "Drive her back?"
"One spin of the wheels will kick that trash out and she'll bog down
again," Jake grunted, and wiped his sweat glistening chest on the
bundled shirt in his hand. He looked at Gareth and felt a flare of
irritation that after five hours" work in the sun, after grovelling on
his belly in the dust, and heaving on the jack handle, the man had
barely raised a/
sweat, his clothes were unmarked and final provocation his hair was
still neatly combed.
Working under Jake's direction, they cut and laid a corduroy of
branches back to the hard ground at the edge of the pan. This would
distribute the weight of the vehicle and prevent it breaking through
the crust again.
Then Vicky manoeuvred and reversed Miss Wobbly down to the edge of the
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