A Lion by the Mane Page 13

  Wouldn’t that be the best thing that had ever happened to her . . . to be shot of the man she had so recently condemned as insufferably martyred; to shake off the incisive influence which had begun to hack at the faceless jewel which had represented Margaret Ward from birth till three weeks ago? Flight from a lion was instinctive to all creatures who dared not confront him lest with a gun . . . yet it would be a sadly haunting sight to see him stilled and brought down. Maybe he had a reputation for aggression, but he was honest about it. The fact was presented for all the world to see; this is what I am and you must accept me! Not for him the sly ‘floating log’ trick of the crocodile, the camouflaged ‘death in a tree’ of the leopard, or the insinuating fatal embrace of the boa constrictor. The lion bounced into open grassland, throwing down his gauntlet with a deafening roar. He was fearless, beholden to no one, yet fiercely loyal to the members of his own pride whom he would defend against all odds.

  There had never been any question of what she would do, Margaret decided as she slung the water bottles over her shoulder and crossed to the wire fence. Jan had lambasted her with the truth about her glib acceptance of a fairy-godmother life without knowing that the past three days had tarnished the tinsel, setting up an ache of restlessness which would intensify if she obeyed her commonsense. The spell of Africa must be on her, driving her from the cocoon to face whatever was waiting . . . and if she fell by the wayside in the process, it would be better than remaining in frozen transition inside – neither one thing nor the other!

  She did not bother to disguise the ‘gate’ again as Jan had. The two vehicles would be found, and whoever searched for the access would find it more easily. A path saved her the bother of choosing the right direction, but it was not so well-defined that she didn’t find herself pushing the undergrowth aside and stumbling over small obstacles. Within minutes she was hot and sweating, and not a little alarmed. Jan could only have had ten minutes’ start on her, but with his longer stride and familiarity with this type of terrain he might be way, way ahead by now. The vegetation was too dense to allow a distant view so there was no way of telling if the path branched off. An immediate doubt of the wisdom of what she had done was pushed down by an equally swift counter-thought. ‘Drooping wings already,’ said an inner voice. ‘How will you ever learn to fly?’

  Half an hour of dogged pushing and scrambling lengthened into an hour. The path had not diverted, but neither had she had any sign of the man ahead and her resolution was definitely weakening. Afraid of dropping even further behind, Margaret uncorked the water bottle and took quick sips as she kept on walking, but it was her undoing. A tangled knot sent her sprawling and she watched the precious water trickle into the thirsty earth. It was not her last; she still had the other bottle, but there was no way of knowing how soon she would meet up with Jan. Back on her feet, she pushed on with renewed effort. If Jan could keep going after the beating he received this morning, and on an injured leg, then so could she!

  Margaret had taken no account of Jan’s greater strength and driving anger inside him which deadened all physical pain as he ploughed on. The girl had been dismissed from his thoughts soon after leaving her, so sure had he been that she had given up her silly game and was now on her way to headquarters. Under his breath he called her what he felt he should have called her to her face, and thanked Providence he was now rid of her. Whoever arrived in answer to the Ranger’s radio-telephone call would get her safely back to Cape Town where she could sort herself out. One thing was absolutely sure . . . she would fall on her feet, that one. A thrusting memory of ‘tipsy Maggie’ and her glowing face as she had watched the lions earlier today was trodden firmly underfoot by the mortification he had felt over the snake episode. Oh yes, that girl was supremely capable of returning unscathed to the bosom of her family – they were welcome to her!

  From experience, he guessed the path he was following led to a native kraal. From there he would discover where Craig Barker and the two Rangers were headed. It would not be to a city, that much was certain. Rebel guerrillas had their headquarters out in the wild from where they made surprise raids before vanishing into the hide-out once more. With luck, the inhabitants of the kraal ahead would have knowledge of the actual headquarters, and if he played his cards right, it might be possible to coax the information from them.

  Craig had panicked and run, but his action would betray his associates. They would not be too pleased about that! Those crates of guns at Alwynsrus would also prove a thorn in their sides. Unless his judgement of character was sadly wrong, Jan felt certain Sergeant De Wet would keep quiet about his discovery, but he was also the type of man who was never satisfied and would definitely like to be assured that there were more where these had come from in return for his silence. Craig and his masters would also suspect this. Jan didn’t give much for the drunken sergeant’s chances if they did!

  The memory of the punishing blows Craig had dealt him that morning fanned the heat of his anger anew. It was a long time since he had been outnumbered that way, but it still sparked in him the desire for revenge. Contempt for this type of unfair fight was tempered by the fact that Craig could have killed him had he wished. That must surely prove that he had no hand in the murder of Russell Martin. Whatever kind of villain the Assistant Warden was, he was no killer! Jan was at a loss to know how or why Craig had allowed himself to become involved in this affair, then with a flood of guilt, remembered his own lemming-like association with Van Heerdon. He had no right to condemn similar actions in another fool!

  Russell Martin must have discovered Craig’s sideline just as this consignment was due in, and the receivers on this side of the border must have dealt with him. The manner of his murder suggested native African involvement, but there surely must be a big white boss! He had no idea how long it would take the Provincial authorities to garner all the facts brought to light by Dr Martin’s death and get around to the part played by Schroeder Freight, but in that time he intended gathering enough evidence to clear Chris when the moment of reckoning came.

  Van Heerdon would be easy. The threat to reveal places and dates of when he had picked up mystery passengers, plus details and destinations of doubtful cargoes transported during the past years should be sufficient pressure to gain what he wanted. He was in enough trouble himself not to hesitate over revealing further incriminating evidence, and Van Heerdon would know that. Craig, if separated from his bully boys, could be intimidated into signing anything. The stumbling block would be the man in charge of the operation on this side. Jan had no lever with which to prise co-operation from him, but as surely as the sun would set tonight, he would find one.

  These violent thoughts so possessed him it was some time before he became aware of the flanking escort he had acquired. His first reaction was not one of alarm. Natives from bush kraals were not hostile as a rule; indeed, many a white man or woman had been given hospitality and willing assistance when they had strayed into the territory by mistake, and Jan looked upon the six black warriors as inquisitive fellow-travellers. He spoke to them in English, and when there was no response, tried Afrikaans with the same negative result. The several greeting phrases which were all he knew of native tongues brought no better success, which surprised him. Unless these men came from a little-known tribe, they should have known one of the expressions of friendship he had used.

  A frown settled on his forehead as he studied his companions. Shorter than a lot of Africans, they nevertheless moved with the easy grace of the black man. Each wore a sporran of animal hide and various bead ornaments to decorate his limbs, but the assegais they carried looked as deadly a weapon as any tribal spear. There was nothing in their manner to suggest enmity, but when Jan halted to light a cigarette they converged on him.

  The match was never struck and the cigarette was plucked from his fingers and thrown on the ground. It was pointless to try any kind of resistance, but he felt sick with disgust at how easily he had walked into the trap. Craig must have known
it was simply a matter of time before he was trailed across the border – and this was the reception committee. He cursed himself for being such a babe in the ways of the criminal to believe all he had to do was negotiate his terms for keeping silent. His original idea of a large organization being behind the gun-running was correct – bigger than he had imagined, probably – and they would look upon him as a suicidal fool for coming here alone and unarmed. It spoke volumes for his innocence of crime that he had not realized that, once having used him, Van Heerdon would never let him go; had known his temperament well enough to be sure he would toe the line if it came to a threat to Schroeder Freight.

  With his wrists fastened behind his back with thin cord, he moved off, encircled by his captors. Now oppression brought a return of all pain. The familiar tearing sensation in his thigh was joined by an ache from his battered abdomen, and a throbbing jaw. For an instant his fingers curled into tight fists behind him as he remembered the way Craig had let into him earlier that day, but it was an impotent gesture for a man rendered helpless.

  Fifteen minutes or so had passed when he was suddenly dragged from the path into surrounding trees and was shocked into the belief that his life was about to end. Certainly, the natives held their assegais at threatening angles, but when several moments went by without further action, Jan suspected the black men had heard sounds which had been inaudible to his less acute hearing.

  Sure enough, he was relieved to pick up the give-away cracking of twigs which heralded the arrival of whoever was pursuing them, but when Margaret came into view, clothes torn and stained by vegetation, bare arms scratched, and her mutinous face red with exertion, Jan groaned and recited his complete vocabulary of invective under his breath.

  When the tribesmen moved out from their cover Margaret screamed. In the main, she would not be afraid of natives, but she was at the end of her tether. To a fastidious person, a battle through humid, thorny undergrowth which tore at her hair and clothes and caused her to sweat profusely, besides covering her with insect bites, was the last straw to already severely tested nerves. The unexpected appearance of these dark-skinned warriors brought the cry before she was aware of making it and, for once, she didn’t know how to deal with a situation. Before the problem became urgent, Jan was dragged from concealment and finished off her wretchedness by saying, ‘You have helped no one by doing this, least of all yourself. You won’t find these people as tolerant of your wilfulness as I am.’

  In another situation she would have laughed hysterically at that – intolerance was one of his biggest faults – but his sinister message got through to her all right. The skilful fencing she had used to counteract his attacks on her would be completely ineffective on the native temperament and mind. She was not to know that in most cases there would be nothing to fear from the inhabitants of the many kraals in the vast wilderness of Africa, so the sight of Jan as their prisoner raised naked fear such as she had never felt before.

  It was much too late to wish she had stayed at Myala to wait for Chris who would plan exactly what to do on behalf of his brother. Chris knew his own country, knew the people, and most of all, knew Jan . . . or did he? Did anyone know Jan? Was there one single person who could say for sure what was going through his mind as he limped along the path ahead of her? Was he letting off silent steam about what she had done, or had he dismissed her from his mind as he had on other occasions? Was he full of despair over his present situation, or did that mutinous spirit still burn brightly? Did he care at all what happened to her, or was he as unfeeling and insensitive to her fate as he made out?

  The biologically-trained mind which Jan had censured told her that a temperament which was fiery in anger and loyalty would also reflect that intensity in other emotions. Could such a man be totally disinterested in the safety of a woman threatened by danger, even though she had foolishly precipitated it against his advice? For herself, a relatively calm person, his welfare concerned her to an overwhelming degree, so surely he could not shrug this off as simply receiving her just desert! Stories of vile, hideous tribal punishments had penetrated even to her Norfolk village, and before long walking was made difficult by the violent trembling of her legs.

  The sight of the kraal set in a clearing brought an increase of panic, but she fought valiantly to control the impulse to run to Jan. It might endanger his safety even more, although by that time the certainty that they were both about to die a cruel death had taken command of every other thought.

  Their approach had been noted and the remaining tribesmen spilled from the circle of thatched huts to line the path which led into the centre of this small African village, and they goggled silently at the sight of a white man being brought in this way. Motivated by the desire to show off, one of the escorting warriors prodded Jan in the manner of a herdsman with a slothful beast, and caused him to stumble. Barely in time, Margaret clamped her lips over a cry of protest. A man liked to fight his own battles, Jan had told her. It was different for a woman. Just at the moment she would give up her career and all it entailed for a little help.

  Slowly the procession moved down through the opening in the stockade of stout pointed saplings until it burst into a central clearing surrounded by huts. It was a fairly typical kraal, which surprised Margaret with its cleanliness. The primitive homes, some round, some square, had mud walls baked and bleached by the sun, in which were unpaned windows and a doorless entrance. Outside many of them were small fires with cooking pots on the boil, earthenware crocks or paraffin tins filled with water, signs of primitive threshing, and half-finished articles made from coloured beads. There was no sign of the women who might be expected to do this work. From the little Margaret knew, it was the female section of these communities which tackled the chores while their menfolk went hunting, or left for jobs in the big cities, so it was a surprise to find the place deserted. A mangy dog or two scavenged listlessly around the huts, but not a child or its mother was in sight.

  Jan was taken to the centre of the clearing by four of the men while the remaining two pushed Margaret towards one of the huts and with threatening gestures forced her to go in. There was nothing inside to warrant the thumping of her heart; all it held was a couple of rush mats with bright wool blankets folded at the head. The floor was swept clean and the walls were frost-white, but the atmosphere inside was the reverse of a refrigerator. An instant reminder of her claustrophobic ordeal inside the Dakota turned her on her heel with the intention of running into the open once more, but the doorway was guarded either side by the tribesmen who had no intention of letting her free. She stood, clutching her skirt, trying to regain control of her composure. Three days and nights as Jan’s sole companion had left her feeling bereft without him, and the dread of what these people might do to them precipitated the longing to be by his side when they faced it.

  Through the opening she watched as a rope collar was slipped over Jan’s head and fastened, neatly but not tightly, round his neck. The other end was secured to a peg driven in the dry earth so that he stood in the centre of the clearing, his hands tied behind his back, tethered like an animal. The men of the kraal slowly gathered in a circle around their prisoner and began a melancholy chanting while they swayed back and forth with mesmeric movements. Jan had his back to her so Margaret could not even draw strength from visual contact with him, and a burning impotence began growing within her.

  The chanting grew louder and louder to reach a crescendo which tightened Margaret’s nerves to breaking point, when the reason for all this build-up appeared. Through the trees leapt the star of the show; a giant of a man decked out in feather wings, with vivid body paintings and a face-mask which represented a grotesque bird-like head. A roar went up and the black men all retreated several paces before silence fell on the scene, leaving the bird man holding centre stage. For effect, he strutted round the gathered audience, taking no notice of the man tethered a few feet away, and Margaret took a good look at him. The size and height he commanded was an illusio
n built up by the trappings he wore. The huge beaky mask was designed to rise a foot above the top of his head and several times wider than a normal human face, but it looked in proportion to the massive shoulders produced by the cunning feather wings which arched out like a vulture’s. Above his knees were bands which held feather ‘stockings’ which hung to the ground like the fluffy legs of a fighting cock, and a similar decoration covered his arms from the elbow down. Even the way he walked and moved was designed to suggest a bird of prey and it was obvious to Margaret that here was that much-feared figure, the tribal witch-doctor!

  The parade over, he took his stand beside the prisoner and Margaret witnessed the power of gifted oration. Without understanding a word that was said, the wild arm-waving and cavortions looked ridiculously melodramatic, but she had seen teenage fans worked up to a dangerous pitch by similar performances by pop-stars, and knew he held his audience completely captive. It seemed the whole impassioned speech concerned the white man, because this tribal charlatan made repeated aggressive gestures at him which caused his followers to copy them. While the inhabitants of the kraal stamped their feet restlessly and set up great shouts at regular intervals, their leader leapt higher and higher and whirled ever closer to Jan until he suddenly reached out to grab him by the hair. The movement pulled the rope collar tighter and the watching girl pressed her fingers to her mouth in silent agitation.

  When it became clear Jan was not about to have his head wrenched from his shoulders, the ugly pantomime began to have some meaning. The colour of his hair was the subject under review! Beneath the twelve o’clock sun it shone with fiery lights; a single glowing ember amongst the black coals encircling it, and this man was cursing Jan because of it. Amongst white people a red-head was worthy of comment; here, where everyone had a black matted busby of hair, he was a freak – bad medicine!