Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 24

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The rifle-fire cracked the desert silences and the antelope kept

trotting steadily away, while the Count shrieked abuse at it and

crammed a fresh load of brass cartridges into the magazine.

The animal was almost beyond effective range now, but the next bullet

fired with the rear sight at maximum elevation fell in a long arcing

trajectory and they heard the thump of the strike, long after the beisa

had collapsed abruptly and disappeared below the line of grey scrub.

When they had found another crossing and forced the

, Rolls through the deep ravine, scraping the rear fender and denting

one of the big silver wheel-hubs, they came up to the spot where the

antelope lay on its side. Leaving the rifle on the back seat in his

eagerness, the Count leapt out before the Rolls had stopped completely.

-Get one of me completing the coup de grace," he shouted at Gino,

as he unholstered the ivory-handled Beretta and ran to the downed

animal.

The soft bullet had shattered the spinal column a few inches forward of

the pelvis, paralysing the hindquarters, and the blood pumped gently

from the wound in a bright rivulet down the pale beige flank.

The Count posed dramatically, pointing the pistol at the magnificently

horned head with its elaborate face-mask of dark chocolate stripes.

Near by, Gino knelt in the soft earth focusing the camera.

At the critical moment, the antelope heaved itself up into a sitting

position and stared with swimming agonized eyes into the

Count's face. The beisa is one of the most aggressive antelopes in

Africa, capable of killing even a fully grown lion with its long rapier

horns. This old bull weighed 450 lb. and stood four feet high at the

shoulder while the horns rose another three feet above that.

The beisa snorted, and the Count forgot all about the levelled pistol

in his hand in his sudden desperate desire to reach the safety of the

Rolls.

Leading the beisa by six inches, he vaulted lightly into the back seat

and crouched on the floorboards, covering his head with both arms while

the beisa battered the sides of the Rolls, driving in one door and

ripping the paintwork with the deadly horns.

Gino was trying to disappear into the earth by sheer pressure, and he

was making a pitiful wailing sound. The driver had stalled the engine,

and he sat frozen in his seat and every time the beisa crashed into the

Rolls, he was thrown so violently forward that his forehead struck the

windshield, and he pleaded, "Shoot it, my Count. Please, my

Count, shoot the monster." The Count's posterior was pointed to the

sky. It was the only part of his anatomy that was visible above the

rear seat of the Rolls and he was shrieking for somebody to hand him

the rifle, but not raising his head to search for it.

The bullet that had severed the beisa's spine had angled forward and

pierced the lung as well. The violent exertions of the stricken animal

tore open a large artery and, with a pitiful bellow and a sudden double

spurt of blood through the nostrils, it collapsed.

In the long silence that followed, the Count's pale face rose slowly

above the level of the back door and he stared fearfully at the

carcass. Its stillness reassured him. Cautiously, he groped for the

Marinlicher, lifted it slowly and poured a stream of bullets into the

inert beisa. His hands were shaking so violently that some of the

shots missed the body and came perilously close to where Gino still

lay, producing a fresh outburst of wails and more mole-like efforts to

become subterranean.

Satisfied that the beisa was at last dead, the Count descended and

walked slowly towards a nearby clump of thorn scrub, but his gait was

bow-legged and stiff, for he had lightly soiled his magnificently

monogrammed silk underwear.

In the cool of the evening, the slightly crumpled Rolls returned to the

battalion bivouac. Draped over the bonnet and across the wide

mudguards lay the bleeding carcasses of the antelopes. The Count stood

to acknowledge the cheers of his troops, a veritable triumphant

Nimrod.

A radio message from General De Bono awaited him. It was not a

reprimand, the General would not go that far, but it pointed out that

although the General was grateful for the Count's efforts up to the

present time, and for his fine sentiments and loyal messages,

nevertheless the General would be very grateful if the Count could find

some way in which to speed up his advance.

The Count sent him a five-hundred-word reply ending, "Ours is the

Victory," and then went to feast on barbecued antelope livers and iced

chianti with his officers.

Leaving the sailing and handling of the HirondeUe to his

Mohammedan mate and his raggedy crew, Captain Papadopoulos had spent

the preceding five days sitting at the table in his low-roofed poop

cabin playing two-handed gin rummy with Major Gareth Swales. Gareth

had suggested the diversion and it had occurred to the Captain by this

time that there was something unnatural in the consistent run of

winning cards which had distinguished Gareth's play.

The agreed fare for transporting the cars and the four passengers had

totalled two hundred and fifty of sterling.

The Captain's losses had just exceeded that figure, and Gareth smiled

winningly at Papadopoulos and smoothed the golden moustaches.

"What do you say we give it a break now, Papa old sport, go up on deck

and stretch the legs, what?" Having recovered the passage money,

Gareth had accomplished the task he had set himself, and he was now

anxious to return to the open deck where Vicky Camberwell and Jake were

becoming much too friendly for his peace of mind.

Every time Gareth had been forced by nature to make a brief journey to

the poop rail, he had seen the two of them together and they seemed to

be laughing a great deal, which was always a bad sign. Vicky was in

the forefront of any action,

passing tools to Jake and offering general encouragement, as he worked

at fine-tuning the cars and making last minute preparations for the

desert crossing or the two of them sat with Gregorius while amidst

great hilarity he gave them basic lessons in the Amharic language. He

wondered distractedly what else they were up to.

However, Gareth was a man sure of his priorities and his first concern

was to recover his money from Papadopoulos.

Having done so, he could now return to sheep-dogging Vicky

Camberwell.

"It's been a lot of fun, Papa." He half rose from the table,

folding the grimy wad of banknotes into his back pocket and gathering

the pile of coins with his free hand.

Captain Papadopoulos reached into the depths of the Arabic gown he wore

and produced a knife with an ornately carved handle and a viciously

curved blade. He balanced it lightly in the palm of his hand and his

single eye glittered coldly at Gareth.

"Deal!" he said, and Gareth smiled blandly and sank back into his

seat. He picked up the cards and cut them with a ripping sound and the

knife disappeared into Papadopoulos's gown once more as he watched the

shuffle intently.

"Actually, I do feel like a few more hands," Gareth murmured.

"Just getting warmed up, hey?" The slaver altered course as she

cleared the tip of the great horn of Africa and rounded Cape Guardafui.

Before her lay the long gut of the Gulf of Aden and a run of five

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