When Manfred could eat not another spoonful, and had to use both hands to cover his yawns, one of the Herero serving maids led him away to his room, and the count poured schnapps for Lothar and brought a box of Havanas for his approval while his wife fussed over the silver coffee pot.
When his cigar was drawing evenly the count told Lothar: I received the letter you sent me from Windhoek, and I was most distressed to hear of your misfortune. Times are very difficult for all of us. He polished his monocle upon his sleeve before screwing it back into his eye and focusing it upon Lothar again. Your sainted mother was a fine lady.
There is nothing that I would not do for her son. He paused and drew upon the Havana, smiled thinly at the flavour and then said, 'However Lothar's spirits dropped at that word, always the harbinger of denial and disappointment.
However, not two weeks before I received your letter the purchasing officer for the army remount department came out to the ranch and I sold him all our excess animals. I have retained only sufficient for our own needs. Though Lothar had seen at least forty fine horses in the herd grazing on the young pasture that grew around the ranch, he merely nodded in understanding.
Of course, I have a pair of excellent mules, big, strong beasts, that I could let you have at a nominal price, say fifty pounds. The pair? Lothar asked deferentially.
Each, said the count firmly. As to the other suggestion in you r letter, I make it a firm rule never to lend money to a friend. That way one avoids losing both friend and money. Lothar let that slide by, and instead returned to the count's earlier remarks. The army remount officer, he has been buying horses from all the estates in the district! I understand he has purchased almost a hundred. The count showed relief at Lothar's gentlemanly acceptance of his refusal. All excellent animals. He was interested only in the best, desert-hardened and salted against the horse-sickness. And he has shipped them south on the railway, I expect! Not yet, the count shook his head. or he had not done so when last I heard. He is holding them on the pool of the Swakop river on the far side of the town, resting them and letting them build up their strength for the rail journey. I heard that he plans to send them down the line when he has a hundred and fifty altogether. They left the fort the following morning after a gargantuan breakfast of sausage and prepared meats and eggs, all three of them riding up on the broad back of the grey mule for which Lothar had finally paid twenty pounds with the head halter thrown in to sweeten the bargain.
How were the servants quarters at the fort? Lothar asked.
Slave quarters, not servants quarters, Hendrick corrected him. 'in them a man could starve to death or, from what I heard, be flogged to death by the count. Hendrick sighed.
If it had not been for the generosity and good nature of the youngest of the Hereto maids, Lothar nudged him sharply in the ribs and shot a warning glance towards Manfred, and Hendrick went on smoothly.
So do we all escape on one sway-backed ancient mule, he observed.
They will never catch us on this gazelle-swift creature. He slapped the fat rump and the mule maintained its easy swaying gait, its hooves plopping in the dust.
We are going to use him for hunting, Lothar told him, and grinned at Hendrick's perplexed frown.
Back at the rock shelter, Lothar worked quickly, making up twelve pack-saddles of ammunition, food and equipment.
When they were lashed and loaded, he laid them out at the entrance of the shelter.
Well, Hendrick grinned. We've got the saddles. All we need are the horses. We should leave a guard here. Lothar ignored him, But we'll need every man with us. He gave the money to Pig John, the least untrustworthy of the gang.
Five pounds is enough to buy a bathtub full of Cape Smoke, he pointed out, and a glassful of it will kill a bull buffalo. But remember this, Pig John, if you are too drunk to stay in the saddle when we ride, I'll not leave you for the police to question. I'll leave you with a bullet in the head. I give you my oath on it. Pig John tucked the banknote into the sweatband of his slouch hat. Not a drop of it will touch my lips, he whined ingratiatingly. The baas knows he can trust me with liquor and women and money. It was almost twenty miles back to the town of Okahandja and Pig John set out immediately to be there well in advance of Lothar's arrival. The rest of the party, with Manfred leading the mule, climbed down the hillside.
There had been no wind since the previous day, so the lion's tracks were still clearly etched and uneroded, even in that loose soil.
The hunters, all armed with the new Mausers, and with bandoliers of ammunition belted over their shoulders, spread out in a fan across the lion spoor and went away at a trot.
Manfred had been warned by his father to keep well back, and with the memories of the beast's wild roarings still in his ears, was pleased to amble along at the mule's slow plod.
The hunters were out of sight ahead, but they had marked their trail for him with broken branches and blazes on the trunks of the camel-Thorn trees so he had no difficulty following.
Within an hour they found the spot at which the old red torn had killed one of the count's heifers. He had stayed on the carcass until he had consumed everything but the head and hooves and larger bones. But even from these he had licked the flesh as proof of his hunger and restricted hunting prowess.
Quickly Lothar and Hendrick cast forward in a circle around the trampled area of the kill and almost immediately cut the outgoing spoor.
He left not more than a few hours ago, Lothar estimated, and then as one of the grass stalks trodden down by the big cat's paws, slowly rose and straightened of its own accord, he amended his guess. Less than half an hour, he might have heard us coming up. No. Hendrick touched the spoor with the long peeled twig he carried. He has gone on at a walk. He isn't worried, he hasn't heard us. He is full of meat and will go now to the nearest water. He's going south. Lothar squinted against the sun to check the run of the spoor. Probably heading for the river and that will take him closer to the town, which suits us very well. He reslung the Mauser on his shoulder and signalled his men to stay in extended order. They went on up the low rise of a consolidated dune and before they reached the top the lion broke, flushing from the cover of a low clump of scrub directly ahead of them, and went away from them across the open ground at an extended catlike run. But his belly, gorged with meat, swung weightily at each stride as though he were heavily pregnant.
It was long range, but the Mausers whip-cracked all along the line as they opened up on the running beast. Dust spurted wide and beyond him. All Lothar's men except Hendrick were appalling marksmen. He could never convince them that the speed of the bullet was not directly proportional to the force with which one pulled the trigger, or break them of the habit of tightly closing their eyes as they ejected the bullet from the barrel with all their strength.
Lothar saw his own first shot kick dust from beneath the lion's belly. He had misjudged the range, always a problem over open desert terrain. He worked the bolt of the Mauser without taking the butt from his shoulder and lifted his aim until the pip of the foresight rode just above the beast's shaggy flowing red mane.
The lion checked to the next shot, breaking his stride, swinging his great head around to snap at his flank where it had stung him, and the sound of the jacketed bullet slapping into his flesh carried clearly to the line of hunters. Then the bon flattened once more into his gallop, ears back, growling with pain and outrage as he vanished over the rise.
He won't go far! Hendrick waved the line of hunters forward.