In Duff the change was less noticeable. He was lean and gaunt-faced as

ever, but now there was less of the restlessness in his eyes. His

speech and movements were slower and the golden beard he was growing had

the strange effect of making him appear younger. Each morning he left

the wagons, taking one of the servant's with him, and spent the days

wandering in the bush, tapping with his prospecting hammer at the

occasional outcrops of rock or squatting beside a stream and spinning

the gravel in his pan. Every evening he came back to camp and analysed

the bag of rock samples he had collected during the day; then he threw

them away, bathed and set out a bottle and two glasses on the table

beside the fire.

While he ate his supper he listened and waited for the dogs to bark, for

the sound of horses in the darkness and Sean's voice. If the night

remained silent he put the bottle away and climbed up into his wagon. He

was lonely then, not with a deep loneliness but just enough to add

relish to Sean's return.

Always they moved east, until gradually the silhouette of the

Zoutpansberg softened as the mountains became less steep and began to

fade into the tail of the range.

Scouting along their edge Sean found a pass and they took the wagons up

and over and down into the Limpopo valley beyond. Here the country

changed character again; it became flat, the monotony of thorn scrub

relieved only by the baobab trees with their great, swollen trunks

crowned in a little halo of branches. Water was scarce and Sean rode

ahead from each camp to find the next waterhole before they moved.

However, the hunting was good for the game was concentrated on the

isolated drinking places, and before they were halfway from the

mountains to the Limpopo Sean had filled another wagon with ivory.

We'll be coming back this way, I suppose! Duff asked.

I suppose so, agreed Sean. Well then, I don't see any point in carrying

a ton of ivory with us. Let's bury it and we can pick it up on our way

back Sean looked at him thoughtfully. About once in every year you come

up with a good idea, we'll do exactly that The next camp was a good one.

There was water, an acre of muddy liquid not as heavily salted with

elephant urine as some of the previous ones had been; there was shade

provided by a grove of wild fig trees and the grazing was of a quality

that promised to restore the condition that the oxen had lost since

crossing the mountains. They decided to make it a rest camp: bury the

ivory, do some repairs and maintenance on the wagons and let the

servants and animals fatten up a little. The first task was to dig a

hole large enough to contain all the hundred-odd tusks they had

accumulated and it was evening on the third day before they finished.

Sean and Duff sat together inside the laager and watched the sun go

down, bleeding below the land, and after it had gone the clouds were

oyster and Iflac-coloured in the brief twilight. Kandhla threw wood on

the fire and it burnt up fiercely. They ate grilled kudu liver, and

thick steaks with a rind of yellow fat on them, and they drank brandy

with their coffee. The conversation lagged into contented silence for

they were both tired. They sat staring into the fire, too lazy to make

the effort required for bed. Sean watched the fire pictures form in the

coals, the faces and the phantoms flickering and fading. He saw a tiny

temple have its columns pulled out from under it by a fiery Samson and

collapse in a shower of sparks, a burning horse changed magically into a

dragon of blue flame. He looked away to rest his eyes and when he

turned back there was a small black scorpion scuttling out from under

the loose bark on one of the logs. It lifted its tail like the arm of a

flamenco dancer and the flames that ringed it shone on its glossy body

armour. Duff was also watching it, leaning forward with his elbows on

his knees. Will he sting himself to death before the flames reach him?

he asked softly. I have heard that they do. No, said Sean. Why not?

Only man has the intelligence to end the inevitable; in all other

creatures the instinct of survival is too strong, Sean answered him, and

the scorpion crabbed sideways from the nearest flames and stopped again

with its raised sting jerking slightly. Besides he's immune to his own

poison so he has no choice. He could jump down into the fire and get it

over with, murmured Duff, subdued by the little tragedy.

The scorpion started its last desperate circuit of the closing ring. its

tail drooped and the grip of its claws was unsteady on the rough bark;

it was shrivelling with the beat, its legs curling up and its tail

subsiding. The flames caressed it with swift yellow hands and smeared

its shiny body with the dullness of death. The log tipped sideways and

the speck was gone. Would you? asked Sean. Would you have jumped?

Duff sighed softly, I don't know, he said and stood up. I'm going to

pump out my bilges and crawl into bed He walked away and went to stand

at the edge of the circle of firelight.

Since they had left Pretoria the small voices of the jackals had yapped

discreetly around each outspan, they were so much a part of the African

night that they went unnoticed, but now suddenly there was a difference.

Only one jackal spoke, and with a voice that stammered shrilly, a sound

of pain, a crazy hysterical shrieking that made Sean's skin prickle. He

scrambled to his feet and stood staring undecided into the darkness. The

jackal was coming towards the camp, coming fast, and suddenly Sean knew

what was happening.

Duff! ! he called. Come back here! Run, man, run!

Duff looked back at Sean helplessly, his hands held low in front of him.

and his water arcing down, curving silver in the firelight from Ins body

to the ground. Duff ! Sean's voice was a shout. It's a rabid jackal.

Run, damn you, run! The jackal was close now, very close, but at last

Duff started to move. He was halfway back to the fire before he

tripped. He fell and rolled over and brought his feet up under his body

to rise. His head turned to face the darkness from which it would come.

Then Sean saw it. It flitted out of the shadows like a grey moth in the

bad light and went straight for where Duff knelt. Sean saw him try to

cover his face with his hands as the jackal sprang at him. One of the

dogs twisted out of Mbejane's hand and brushed past Sean's legs. Sean

snatched up a piece of firewood and sprinted after it, but already Duff

was on his back, his arms flailing frantically as he tried to push away

the terrier-sized animal that was slashing at his face and hands. The

dog caught it and dragged it off, worrying it, growling through locked

jaws. Sean hit the jackal with the club, breaking its back. He swung

again and again, beating its body, into shapelessness before he turned

to Duff. Duff was on his feet now. He had unwound the scarf from his

neck and was mopping with it at his face but the blood dribbled down his

chin and blotched the front of his shirt. His hands were trembling.

Sean led him close to the fire, pulled Duff's hands down and examined

the bites. His nose was torn and the flesh of one cheek hung open in a

flap. Sit down! Duff obeyed, holding the scarf to his face again. Sean

went quickly to the fire: with a stick he raked embers into a pile, then

he drew his hunting-knife and thrust the blade into the coals. Mbejane,

he called, without taking his eyes off the knife. Throw that jackal

onto the fire. Put on plenty of wood. Do not touch its body with your

hands. When you have done that tie up that dog and keep the others away

from it. Sean turned the knife in the fire. Duff, drink as much of

that brandy as you can What are you going to do? You know what I've got

to do! He bit my wrist as well. Duff held up his hand for Sean to see

the punctures, black holes from which the blood oozed watery and slow.

Drink. Sean pointed at the brandy bottle. For a second they looked at

each other and Sean saw the horror moving in Duffs eyes: horror of the

hot knife and horror of the germs which had been injected into him. The

germs that must be burnt out before they escaped into his blood, to

breed and ferment there until they ate into his brain and rode him to a

screaming gibbering death. Drink, said Sean again. Duff took up the

bottle and lifted it to his mouth. Sean stooped and pulled the knife

out of the fire. He held the blade an inch from the back of his hand.

It was not hot enough. He thrust it back into the coals.

IMbejane, Hlubi, stand on each side of the Nkosi's chair. Be ready to

hold him. Sean loosened his belt, doubled the thick leather and handed

it to Duff. Bite on this. He turned back to the fire and this time

when he drew the knife its blade was pale pink. Are you ready? The

work you are about to do will break the hearts of a million maids. A

last hoarse attempt at humour from Duff.

Hold him, said Sean.

Duff gasped at the touch of the knife, a great shuddering gasp, and his

back arched but the two Zulus held held him down remorselessly. The

edges of the wound blackened ened and hissed as Sean ran the blade in

deeper. The stink of burning brought the vomit into his throat. He

clenched his teeth. When he stepped back Duff hung slackly in the

Zulus, hands, sweat had soaked his shirt and wet his hair.

Sean heated the knife again and cleaned the bites in Duff's wrist while

Duff moaned and writhed weakly in the chair.

He smeared axle grease over the burns and bandaged the wrist loosely

with strips torn from a clean shirt. They lifted Duff into the wagon

and laid him on his cot. Sean went out to where Mbejane had tied the

dog. He found scratches beneath the hair on its shoulder. They put a

sack over its head to stop it biting and Sean cauterized its wounds

also. Tie it to the far wagon, do not let the other dogs near it, see