Men of Men - Smith Wilbur - Страница 66
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With him to witness it, Zouga's triumph was complete.
He turned for the last time to look back at Shooting Star, just in time to see him fall. It had been much too fast, too uncontrolled, that wild gallop across ground rotten with squirrel warrens. Shooting Star's front legs went from under him. Zouga imagined he could hear the bone break, like the crack of a pistol shot, and the huge horse went down from full gallop, shoulder first, neck twisted around in an agonized contortion'like that of a dying flamingo; dust flew up in a cloud, blanketing them, and above it the stallion's hooves kicked spasmodically, convulsively, and then sagged.
The pale beige dust cloud drifted aside, revealing the tragic tangle of horse and rider. Shooting Star lay on his side and, as Zouga reined in and swung Tom's nose back the way he had come, the great stallion made a feeble effort to lift his head off the ground and then let it fall back weakly.
Louise's body had been flung clear. She lay curled like a sleeping child on the bare earth, very still, very small.
"Ha, Tom, ha!"Zouga urged him to greater speed. He was shocked at the sense of utter desolation that assailed him as he galloped back to where she lay. There was something so final, so terribly chilling in her stillness, in the complete relaxation, the lifelessness of that tiny crumpled body.
"Please God," Zouga spoke aloud, his throat seared by dust and thirst and dread. "Please don't let it be."
He imagined the lovely delicate neck twisted at an impossible angle against the shattered vertebrae. He imagined the awful bloodless depression in the delicate dome of her skull; he imagined those huge dark eyes, open and staring, the inner glow fading, he imagined, oh God, he imagined, Then he was kicking his feet clear of the stirrups and jumping down even while Tom was at full gallop, stumbling to keep his balance and then running to where she lay.
Louise uncurled her body and rolled lightly to her feet.
"Come, darling, up darling," she called to Shooting Star, as she ran to him. The stallion lunged once, twice and then he was standing, head up.
"What a clever darling," Louise laughed, but with the huskiness of excitement and the tremor of heart-breaking exertion in the sound of it.
She did not have the strength left to vault for the saddle, and for a moment she hopped with one foot in the stirrup before she could find the energy to swing her other leg up over Shooting Star's back, while Zouga stood and gaped at her.
From the saddle she looked down at Zouga. "Playing dead is an old Blackfoot Indian's trick, Major."
Louise swung the stallion's head towards the finish line.
"Let's see you run the last lap on equal terms," she challenged, and Shooting Star jumped away at full gallop.
For a moment Zouga could not bring himself to believe that she had taught the stallion to fall so convincingly, and to lie so still. Then suddenly his concern for her safety, the desolate feeling of believing her dead or maimed turned to fury and outrage.
As he ran back to where Tom stood, he yelled after her.
"Madam, you are a cheat, may God forgive you for that."
She turned in the saddle and waved gaily. "Sir, you are gullible, but I will forgive you for that."
And Shooting Star bore her away towards the finish at a pace that poor Tom could never match.
Zouga Ballantyne was drunk. It was the first time in the twenty-two years they had been together that Jan Cheroot had seen him so.
He sat very erect on the high-backed deal chair, and his face above the beard had a strange waxen look to it.
His eyes were glazed over with the same soapy sheen of uncut diamonds, The third bottle of Cape Brandy stood on the green baize of the table between them, and as Zouga fumbled for it, he knocked it over. The spirit glugged loudly from the mouth, and soaked into the cloth.
Jan Cheroot snatched it upright, with a shocked oath.
"Man, if you want to lose the Devil's Own, I don't mind, but, when you spill the brandy, that's another thing."
Jan Cheroot stumbled a little over the words; they had been drinking since an hour before sundown.
"What am I going to tell the boys?" mumbled Zouga.
"Tell them that they are on holiday, for the first time in ten years. We are all on holiday."
Jan Cheroot poured brandy into Zouga's mug, and pushed it closer to his hand. Then he poured a good dram into his own, thought about it for a moment, and added as much again.
"I have lost everything Old Jan."
"Ja," Jan Cheroot said cheerfully. "And that was not very much, was it."
"I have lost the claims."
"Good." jan Cheroot nodded. "For ten years those double-damned squares of dirt ate our souls away, and starved us while they were doing it."
"I have lost the bird."
"Good again!" Jan Cheroot swigged his brandy, and smacked his lips with appreciation. "Let mister Rhodes have his share of bad luck now.
That bird will finish him, as it nearly finished us. Send it to him as soon as you can, and thank God to be rid of it."
Slowly Zouga lowered his face into his hands, covering his eyes and his mouth, so that his voice was muffled.
"Jan Cheroot. It's all over. For me the road to the north is closed. My dream is finished. It's all been for nothing."
The bibulous grin faded slowly and Jan Cheroot's yellow face puckered with deep compassion.
"it is not finished, you are still young and strong with two strong sons."
"We shall lose them too, soon, very soon."
"Then you will have me, old friend, like it has always been."
Zouga lifted his head out of his hands and stared at the little Hottentot.
"What are we going to do, Jan Cheroot?"
"We are going to finish this bottle and then open another," Jan Cheroot told him firmly.
In the morning they loaded the soapstone idol into the gravel cart, and laid it on a bed of straw; then Zouga spread a stained and tattered tarpaulin over it and Jordan helped him rope it down.
Neither of them spoke, until they were finished, and then Jordan whispered so softly that Zouga barely caught the words.
"You can't let it go, Papa." And Zouga turned to look at his younger son, truly seeing him for the first time in many years.
With a small shock he realized that Jordan was a man.
In imitation of Ralph perhaps, he also had grown a moustache. It was a dense coppery gold, and accentuated the gentle line of his mouth, yet, if anything, the man was more beautiful than the child had been.
"Is there no way we can keep it?" Jordan persisted, with a thin edge of desperation in his voice, and Zouga went on staring at him. How old was he now? Over nineteen years, and yesterday he had been a baby, little Jordie.
Everything was changed.
Zouga turned away from him, and placed his hand on the tarpaulin-wrapped burden in the bottom of the cart.
"No, Jordan. It was a wager, a matter of honour."
"But, Mama -" Jordan started and then broke off abruptly as Zouga looked back at him sharply.
"What about Mama?" he demanded, and Jordan looked away and flushed, bringing up the colour under the velvety skin of his cheeks.
"Nothing," he said quickly, and went to the head of the lead mule.
"I will take the bird to mister Rhodes," he volunteered, and Zouga nodded immediately, relieved that he would be spared this painful duty.
"Ask him when he will be free to sign the transfer of the claims."
Zouga touched the wrapped statue again as though in farewell and then he pulled his hand away, went up the steps onto the verandah and into the bungalow without looking back.
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