It was a good hunt, this first one. The small breeze held steadily into

their faces and the spoor ran straight and hot. They closed in, each

minute strengthening the certainty of the kill. Sean sat stiff and

eager in the saddle Whith his rifle across his lap, his eyes restlessly

moving over the frieze of bush ahead of him. Mbejane stopped suddenly

and came back to Sean's stirrup. Here they halted for the first time.

The sun is hot and they will rest but this place was not to their liking

and they have moved on. We will find them soon now. The bush becomes

too thick, Sean grunted; he eyed the untidy tangle of catbush into which

the spoor had led them. We will leave the horses here with Hlubi and go

In on foot. Laddie, Duff demurred. I can run much faster on horseback.

, off! said Sean and nodded to Mbejane to lead. They moved forward

again. Sean was sweating and the drops clung heavily to his eyebrows

and trickled down his cheeks; he brushed them away. The excitement was

an indigestible ball in his stomach and a dryness in his throat.

Duff sauntered casually next to Sean with that small half smile on his

face, but there was a quickness in his breathing. Mbejane cautioned

them with a gesture of his hand and they stopped. Minutes passed slowly

and then Mbejane's hand moved again, pink-palmed eloquence. It was

nothing, said the hand. Follow me. They went on again. There were

Mopani flies swarming at the corners of Sean's eyes, drinking the

moisture, and he blinked them away. Their bu=ing was so loud in his

ears that he thought it must carry to their quarry. His every sense was

tuned to its limit: hearing magnified, vision sharp and even his sense

of smell so clear that he could pick up the taint of dust, the scent of

a will, lower and Mbejane's faintly musky body-smell.

Suddenly in front of him Mbejane was still; his hand moved again gently,

unmistakably.

They are here, said the hand.

Sean and Duff crouched behind him, searching with eyes that could see

only brown bush and grey shadows.

The tension coarsened their breathing and Duff was no longer smiling.

Mbejane's hand came up slowly and pointed at the wall of vegetation in

front of them. The seconds strung together like beads on the string of

time and still they searched.

An ear flapped lazily and instantly the picture jumped into focus. Bull

elephant, big and very close, grey among grey shadow. Sean touched

Mbejane's arm. I had seen it, said that touch.

Slowly Mbejane's hand swivelled and pointed again.

Another wait, another searching and then a belly nimbled, a great grey

belly filled with half-digested leaves. It was a sound so ridiculous in

the silence that Sean wanted to laugh, a gurgling sloshy sound, and Sean

saw the other bull. It was standing in shadow also, with long yellow

Ivory and small eyes tight-closed. Sean put his lips to Duff's ear.

This one is yours, he whispered. Wait until I get into position for the

other, and he began moving out to the side, each step exposing a little

more of the second bull's flank until the shoulder was open to him and

he could see the point of the elbow beneath the baggy, wrhilded skin.

The angle was right; from here he could reach the heart. He nodded at

Duff, brought his rifle up, leaning forward against the recoil, aiming

close behind the massive shoulder, and he fired.

The gunfire was shockingly loud in the confined thorn bush; dust flew in

a spurt from the bull's shoulder and it staggered from the strike of the

bullet. Beyond it the third elephant burst from sleep into flight and

Sean's hands moved neatly on his weapon, ejecting and reloading,

swinging up and firing again. He saw the buffet hit and he knew it was

a mortal wound. The two bulls ran together and the bush opened to them

and swallowed them: they were gone, crashing away wounded, trumpeting in

pain. Sean ran after them, dodging through the catbush, oblivious to

the sting of the thorns that snatched at him as he passed.

This way, Nkosi, Mbejane shouted beside him.

Quickly or we will lose them. They sprinted after the sounds of flight,

a hundred yards, two hundred, panting now and sweating in the heat.

Suddenly the catbush ended and in front of them was a wide river-bed

with steep banks. The river sand was blindingly white and in the middle

was a sluggish trickle of water. One of the bulls was dead, lying in

the stream with the blood washing off him in a pale brown stain. The

other bull was trying to climb the far bank; it was too steep for him

and he slid back wearily. The blood dripped from the tip of his trunk,

and he swung his head to look at Sean and Mbejane. His ears cocked back

defiantly and he began his charge, blundering towards them through the

soft river sand.

Sean watched him come and there was sadness in him as he brought up his

rifle, but it was the proud regret that a man feels when he watches

hopeless courage. Sean killed with a brain shot, quickly.

They climbed down the bank into the river-bed and went to the elephant;