The Dark of the Sun - Smith Wilbur - Страница 67

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The next burst of gunfire kicked lumps of clay from the top of the

ant-heap, showering Bruce's back.

He lay with his face pressed into the earth, wheezing with the agony of

empty lungs, flattening his body behind the tiny heap of clay.

Will it cover me? Is there enough of it?

And the next hail of bullets thumped into the ant-heap, throwing

fountains of earth, but leaving Bruce untouched.

I'm safe. The realization came with a surge that washed away his

fear.

But I'm helpless, answered his hatred. Pinned to the earth for as long

as Hendry wants to keep me here.

The rain fell on his back. Soaking through his jacket, coldly caressing

the nape of his neck and dribbling down over his jaws.

He rolled his head sideways, not daring to lift it an inch, and

the rain beat on to the side of his face.

The rain! Falling faster. Thickening. Hanging from the clouds like the

skirts of a woman's dress.

Curtains of rain. Greying out the edge of the forest, leaving no solid

shapes in the mist of falling liquid motherof-pearl.

Still gasping but with the pain slowly receding, Bruce lifted his head.

The kopje was a vague blue-green shape ahead of him, then it was gone,

swallowed by the eddying columns of rain.

Bruce pushed himself up on to his knees and the pain in his chest made

him dizzy.

Now! he thought. Now, before it thins, and he lumbered clumsily to his

feet.

For a moment he stood clutching his chest, sucking for breath in the

haze of water-filled air, and then he staggered towards the edge of the

forest.

His feet steadied under him, his breathing eased, and he was into the

trees.

They closed round him protectively. He leaned against the rough bark of

one of them and wiped the rain from his face with the palm of his hand.

The strength came back to him and with it his hatred and his excitement.

He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and stood away from the tree with

his feet planted wide apart.

"Now, my friend," he whispered, "we fight on equal terms." He pumped a

round into the chamber of the FN and moved towards the kopje, stepping

daintily, the weight of the rifle in his hands, his mind suddenly sharp

and clear, vision enhanced, feeling his strength and the absence of fear

like a song within him, a battle hymn.

He made out the loom of the kopje through the dripping rain-heavy trees

and he circled out to the right. There is plenty of time, he thought. I

can afford to case the joint thoroughly. He completed circuit of the

rock pile.

The kopje, he found, was the shape of a galleon sinking by the head. At

one end the high double castles of the poop, from which the main deck

canted steeply forward as though the prow were already under water. This

slope was scattered with boulders and densely covered with dwarf scrub,

an interwoven mass of shoulder-high branches and leaves.

Bruce squatted on his haunches with the rifle in his lap and looked up

the ramp at the twin turrets of the kopje.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle.

Hendry was on top. Bruce knew he would go to the highest point.

Strange how height makes a man feel invulnerable, makes him think he is

a god.

And since he had fired upon them he must be in the turret nearest the

vlei, which was slightly the higher of the two, its summit crowned by a

patch of stunted broom bush.

So now I know exactly where he is and i will wait half an hour.

He may become impatient and move; if he does I will get a shot at him

from here.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, judging the distance.

"About two hundred yards." He adjusted the rear-sight of the FN

and then checked the load, felt in the side pocket of his jacket to make

sure the two extra clips of ammunition were handy, and settled back

comfortably to wait.

"Curry, you sonofabitch, where are you?" Hendry's shout floated down

through the drizzling rain and Bruce stiffened.

I was right - he's on top of the left-hand turret.

"Come on, Bucko. I've been waiting for you since yesterday afternoon."

Bruce lifted the rifle and sighted experimentally at a dark patch on the

wall of the rock. It would be difficult shooting in the rain, the rifle

slippery with wet, the fine drizzle clinging to his eyebrows and dewing

the sights of the rifle with little beads of moisture.

"Hey, Curry, how's your little French piece of pussy?

Man, she's hot, that thing, isn't she?" Bruce's hands tightened on the

rifle.

"Did she tell you how I gave her the old business? Did she tell

you how she loved it? You should have heard her panting like a steam

engine. I'm telling you, Curry, she just couldn't get enough!" Bruce

felt himself start to tremble. He clenched his jaws, biting down until

his teeth ached.

Steady, Bruce my boy, that's what he wants you to do.

The trees dripped steadily in the silence and a gust of wind stirred the

scrub on the slope of the kopje. Bruce waited, straining his eyes for

the first hint of movement on the left-hand turret.

"You yellow or something, Curry ? You scared to come on up here?

Is that what it is? Bruce shifted his position slightly, ready for a

snap shot.

"Okay, Bucko. I can wait, I've got all day. I'll just sit here thinking

about how I mucked your little bit of French. I'm telling you it was

something to remember. Up and down, in and out, man it was something!"

Bruce came carefully up on to his feet behind the trunk of the tree and

once more studied the layout of the kopie.

If I can move up the slope, keeping well over to the side, until I

reach the right-hand turret, there's a ledge there that will take me to

the top. I'll be twenty or thirty feet from him, and at that range it

will all be over in a few seconds.

He drew a deep breath and left the shelter of the tree.

Wally Hendry spotted the movement in the forest below him; it was a

flash of brown quickly gone, too fast to get a bead on it.

He wiped the rain off his face and wriggled a foot closer to the edge.

"Come on, Curry. Let's stop buggering about," he shouted, and cuddled

the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. The tip of his tongue kept

darting out and touching his lips.

At the foot of the slope he saw a branch move slightly, stirring when

there was no wind. He grinned and snuggled his hips down on to the rock.

Here he comes, he gloated, he's crawling up, under the scrub

"I know you're sitting down there. Okay, Curry, I can wait also."

Half-way up the slope the top leaves of another bush swayed gently,

parting and closing.

"Yes!" whispered Wally, "Yes!" and he clicked off the safety catch of

the rifle. His tongue came out and moved slowly from one corner of his

mouth to the other.

I've got him, for sure, There - he'll have to cross that piece of open

ground. A couple a yards, that's all. But it'll be enough.

He moved again, wriggling a few inches to one side, to the gap between

two large grey boulders; settling his aim in he pushed the rate-of-fire

selector on to rapid and his fore-finger rested lightly on the trigger.

"Hey, Curry, I'm getting bored. If you are not going to come up, how

about singing to me or cracking a few jokes?" Bruce Curry crouched

behind a large grey boulder. In front of him were three yards of open

ground and then the shelter of another rock. He was almost at the top of

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