streaked with grey, and, as Debra remarked, she was probably the only
thing in the world that Conrad was afraid of.
I'm talking, Connie, was enough to halt any flow of eloquence from her
huge spouse, or a significant glance at her empty glass sent him with
elephantine haste for a refill. Conrad had a great deal of trouble
finishing any story or statement, for Jane had to correct the details
during the telling, while he waited patiently for an opportunity to
resume.
Debra chose the main course with care so as not to give offence,
beefsteaks from the deep freeze, and Conrad ate four of them with
unreserved pleasure although he spurned the wine that David served.
That stuff is poison. Killed one of my uncles, and stayed with Old Buck
gin, even through the dessert.
Afterwards they sat about the cavernous fireplace with its logs blazing
cheerfully and Conrad explained, with Jane's assistance, the problems
that David would face on Jabulani.
You get a few of the blacks from the tribal areas coming in from the
north Or across the river, Jane added.
Or across the river, but they are no big sweat They set wire snares
mostly, and they don't kill that much. But it's a terribly cruel way,
the poor animals linger on for days with the wire cutting down to the
bone, Jane elaborated.
As I was saying, once we have a few rangers busy that will stop almost
immediately. It's the white poachers with modern rifles and hunting
lamps 'Killing lamps, Jane corrected.
killing lamps, that do the real damage. They finished off all your game
on Jabulani in a couple of seasons. Where do they come from? David
asked, his anger was rising again, the same protective anger of the
shepherd that he had felt as he flew the skies of Israel.
There is a big copper mine fifty miles north of here at Phalabora,
hundreds of bored miners with a taste for venison. They would come down
here and blaze away at every living thing, but now it's not worth the
trip for them. Anyway they were just the amateurs, the weekend
poachers. 'Who are the professionals? Where the dirt road from
Jabulani meets the big national highway, about thirty miles from here -
At a place called Bandolier Hill, Jane supplied the name. - there is a
general dealer's store. it's just one of those trading posts that gets
a little of the passing trade from the main road, but relies on the
natives from the tribal areas. The person who owns and runs it has been
there eight years now, and I have been after him all that time, but he's
the craftiest bastard, I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan I have ever run into.
'He's the one? David asked.
He's the one, Conrad nodded. Catch him, and half your worries are over.
What's his name? Akkers. Johan Akkers, Jane gave her assistance, the
Old Buck was making her slightly owl-eyed, and she was having a little
difficulty with her enunciation.
How are we going to get him! David mused. There isn't anything left on
Tabulani to tempt him, the few kudu we have got are so wild, it wouldn't
be worth the effort. No, you haven't got anything to tempt him right
now, but about the middle of September More like the first week in
September, Jane said firmly with strings of hair starting to hang down
her temples. - the first week in September the morula trees down by your
pools will come into fruit, and my elephants are going to visit you. The
one thing they just can't resist is morula berries, and they are going
to flatten my fence to get at them. Before I can repair it a lot of
other game are going to follow the jumbo over to your side.
You can lay any type of odds you like that our friend Akkers is oiling
his guns and drooling at the mouth right this minute. He will know
within an hour when the fence goes. 'This time he may get a surprise.
'Let's hope so. I think- David said softly - that we might run down to
Bandolier Hill tomorrow to have a look at this gentleman. 'One thing is
for sure, said Jane Berg indistinctly, a gentleman, he is not.
The road down to Bandolier Hill was heavily corrugated and thick with
white dust that rose in a banner behind the Land-Rover and hung in the
air long after they had passed. The hill was rounded and thickly
timbered and stood over the main metalled highway.
The trading post was four or five hundred yards from the road junction,
set back amidst a grove of mango trees with their deep green and
glistening foliage. It was a type found all over Africa, an unlovely
building of mud brick with a naked corrugated iron roof, the walls
plastered thickly with posters advertising goods from tea t o flashlight
batteries.
David parked the Land-Rover in the dusty yard beneath the raised stoop.
There was a faded sign above the front steps:
Bandolier Hill General Dealers.
At the side of the building was parked an old green Ford one-ton truck
with local licence plates. In the shade of the stoop squatted a dozen
or so potential customers, African women from the tribal area, dressed
in long cotton print dresses, timeless in their patience and their
expressions showing no curiosity about the occupants of the Land-Rover.
One of the women was suckling her infant with an enormously elongated
breast that allowed the child to stand beside her and watch the
newcomers without removing the puckered black nipple from his mouth.
Set in the centre of the yard was a thick straight pole, fifteen feet
tall, and on top of the pole was a wooden structure like a dog kennel.
David exclaimed as from the kennel emerged a big brown furry animal. it
descended the pole in one swift falling action, seemingly at lightly as
a bird, and the chain that was fastened to the pole at one end was, at
the other, buckled about the animal's waist by a thick leather strap.
It's one of the biggest old bull baboons I've ever seen. Quickly he
described it to Debra, as the baboon moved out to the chain's limit, and
knuckled the ground as he made a leisurely circle about his pole, the
chain clinking as it swung behind him. It was an arrogant display, and
he ruffled out the thick mane of hair upon his shoulders.
When he had completed the circle, he sat down facing the Land-Rover, in
a repellently humanoid attitude, and thrust out his lower jaw as he
regarded them through the small brown, close-set eyes.
A nasty beast, David told Debra. He would weigh ninety pounds, with a
long dog-like muzzle and a jaw full of yellow fangs. After the hyena,
he was the most hated animal of the veld, cunning, cruel and avaricious,
all the vices of man and none of his graces. His stare was unblinking
and, every few seconds, he ducked his head in a quick aggressive
gesture.
While all David's attention was on the baboon, a man had come out of the
store and now leaned on one of the pillars of the veranda.
What can I do for you, Mr. Morgan? he asked in a thick accent. He was
tall and spare, dressed in slightly rumpled and not entirely clean khaki
slacks and openneck shirt, with heavy boots on his feet and braces
hooked into his pants, crossing his shoulders.
How did you know my name? David looked up at him, and saw he was of
middle age with close-cropped greying hair over a domed skull. His
teeth were badly fitting with bright pink plastic gums and his skin was
drawn over the bones of the cheeks, and his deep-set eyes gave him a
skull-like look. He grinned at David's question.
Could only be you, scarred face and blind wife, you the new owner of
Jabulani. Heard you built a new house and all set to live there now.