06 African Adventure (14 page)

The Chev advanced, using all its four-wheel-drive power, the cable tightened, and the squirming animal was dragged up a greased ramp into the cage.

The prize was taken to camp, and the injured Kenyono received prompt medical treatment from the not too expert but willing hands of Hal Hunt.

‘Let me snag the next one,’ pleaded Roger.

Hal had noosed two buffalo. Roger considered that it was his turn.

Hal objected. His own narrow escape from being crushed between a bull’s head and a steel fender chilled his blood whenever he thought of it.

‘It’s no game for kids,’ he said.

Age thirteen looked up at age nineteen with fire in his eye.

‘What’s that you called me? Watch your language, you young squirt, or I’ll take you over my knee and pound some sense into you.’

Hal looked at the broad shoulders and strong frame of his younger brother. The ‘kid’ was coming along fast. It wouldn’t be many years now before the two of them would be evenly matched.

‘Suppose I have no right to ‘kid’ you,’ he admitted. ‘But - take a look at this chair.’

He ran his fingers over the splinters of wood and twists of metal that had once been a chair. The bits and pieces of it were plastered against the fender. No carpenter on earth could ever put it together again. Hal unstrapped it from the car and threw it away. He turned to Roger.

‘Suppose you had been in that thing when the big boy arrived.’

‘Do you think I’d stay in it until he got there?’ Roger demanded. ‘You got out, didn’t you? Why couldn’t I?’ When his brother showed no sign of relenting, Roger added, ‘Let’s put it to Dad.’

They went in to their father’s cot and repeated their argument. John Hunt was suffering considerable pain, but his look softened into a smile as he studied his boys,

‘Hal doesn’t want you to be hurt,’ he said to Roger. ‘I don’t either. But you, Hal, must realize that this ‘kid’, as you call him, is almost a man. We don’t want to stop him from becoming one. He’ll become one only if he takes his chance along with other men. Let him ride the chair.’

Roger gave a whoop that betrayed him as still being pretty much of a boy. He dashed out to the supply wagon, got another chair and lashed it to the fender of the Land-Rover that was to be used this time as the catching-vehicle. And he found himself a lasso, such as the cowboys used in the American West. He had practised with it for hours -now was his chance to see if he could use it to make a real capture.

But when Joro began to climb into the driver’s seat of the Land-Rover, Hal checked him.

‘You and I will go in the cage truck,’ he said, just for a change. Mali, you drive the Land-Rover.’

Hal wanted Joro where he could watch him. He climbed in beside this doubtful fellow, who was perhaps a leopard-man and perhaps had tried to kill him only half an hour before. There were too many perhapses about Joro. But it was certain that he was a good driver and a good hunter, and he must be considered innocent until he was proved guilty.

The herd had moved into the shade to escape the growing heat of the day. Some were lying down, asleep, others slept standing up, others wallowed comfortably in a muddy marsh beside the river. All stayed close together for safety except the biggest bulls, who were so sure of their own strength that they thought they did not need the protection of the herd. They didn’t want to be disturbed by the grunting of the cows and the screaming of the babies. They had strayed away, each one by himself.

Roger selected one with shoulders like a football hero’s and a head as solid as the door of a safe. Surely, Roger thought, this giant must be king of the herd. He pointed him out to Mali.

The great beast moved away at a slow, dignified walk as the car approached. The walk changed to a run, and the run to a gallop.

Mali did not stop for rocks, logs, or holes. Roger bounced like a rubber doll. This was his first time in a fender chair. He had never dreamed the ride could be so rough. Not trusting his lifebelt, he hung on with one hand while he held the lasso ready in the other.

Now they were close enough. Roger whirled the lasso three times round his head and let it fly. The loop settled down round a thorn-bush, and a yank on the rope might well have pulled Roger apart if Mali had not promptly ground to a stop.

Mali and the men in the back of the Land-Rover were laughing. Laughter came, too, from the following Powerwagon. Roger blushed a rosy red. A great hunter he was! Aiming at a buffalo and snagging a thorn-bush I

One of the men jumped down and pulled the loop free from the bush. Roger pulled in and coiled the rope as Mali started the car.

The bull had stopped and was looking back with a big grin on his ugly face - or so it seemed to Roger. Then with

snort and a toss of his head he took to his heels, and the chase was on again.

At every bump Roger rose several inches about his seat. Half the time he was like an astronaut, weightless, flying through space. When he did come down on the iron seat, he hit it with a painful whack. How could anyone expect a fellow to throw a lasso from this bouncing, pounding car, worse than any wild horse?

Now he was close. He would try, but he was sure he would fail. At least he would choose a spot where there were no thorn-bushes.

Seizing his chance, he snaked the nylon noose out towards the big black head.

He let out a whoop worthy of any cowboy when he saw the rope tighten round the king’s neck.

The line, made fast to the fender, brought the bull up short The men spilled out of the cars to complete the capture. Even the two drivers, Mali and Joro, joined in the struggle, for this was a real giant and would not easily be hobbled.

The bull had turned to face his tormentors and stood still like something carved out of stone, except that his blazing eyes rolled from side to side, taking in every move.

He wouldn’t be half so smart if we could blindfold him, thought Roger. He loosed himself from his chair, snatched a red blanket out of the car, and made for the animal’s head.

Before he could get there, the beast let out a roar of defiance, leaped straight up into the air like a black balloon, pulled the line taut and snapped it as if it had been a silk thread. Then he struck out after the nearest African, who happened to be Joro.

The men stood with their mouths agape. They could not hope to keep up with that whirlwind. Joro’s oiled, black body flashed in the sun as he ran for his life.

The man and bull passed close to Roger. The boy leaped for the trailing line, grabbed it, and held on. He could not even slow down the steam-engine. He was dragged head first over humps and hollows, sticks and stones, and through elephant grass whose razor edges sliced into his face and hands.

He couldn’t care less. This was his bull and it was not going to escape him.

His toboggan ride was made a little easier by the blanket which got tangled round his shoulders and took some of die jolts.

The wild race came to a sudden halt. Roger, feeling considerably battered, raised himself on his elbow and looked. He brushed away the blood that seeped into his eyes from scratches on his forehead. What he saw made him leap to his feet and run to the assistance of the black

hunter.

The bull had caught up with Joro and knocked him flat. Now he slid his right horn under the man and tossed him ten feet in the air as lightly as if he had been a bag of meal. Joro came down on a ridge of rock with a force that would have broken the back of an ordinary man.

He tried to rise, but got up only on his hands and knees before the buffalo’s head went beneath him and tossed him again, making the black body spin in the air, then caught it as it came down and gave it still another skyward fling.

When the limp body sprawled to the ground, the angry buffalo stood up on his hind feet and brought his forefeet smashing down upon his victim. Joro tried to roll out of the way, but the hammer-like hooves found him again.

It was the buffalo’s favourite method of attack. He would not be satisfied until he had separated bone from bone and crushed out every sign of life.

Seeing this ferocious beast at work, Roger heard a small voice telling him that he ought to be running the other way. But he ran on straight into trouble.

His brain, too, was racing. What could he do? He was no match for this huge bull. As for his blanket, he could never hope to get it over the bull’s head and hold it there without any men to help him. He was sure the men were coming, but Joro would die before they arrived.

Then a crazy idea came into his head. It might work. If this bull was anything like his distant cousins in the bullrings of Spain, he would go for a waving blanket

Facing the bull, he gripped the blanket by two corners and let it billow out on the breeze.

The bull stopped his deadly trampling. He glared at the red, flapping thing. Then with a snort of rage he charged.

When he got to where the red thing had been it was no longer there. The young toreador had flipped it into the air so that the bull passed beneath it.

The bull wheeled about. There it was again, the great red thing daring him to come on. Roger was feeling the flush of victory. If he could just keep on bamboozling this silly beast until the men go there …

The bull charged. This time the wind played pranks with the blanket. It did not soar up out of the way as it was supposed to do.

The bull caught it on his horns, wrenched it out of Roger’s hands, tossed it on the ground and proceeded to trample it just as he had trampled Joro. When it lay still he sniffed at it, decided it was dead, and turned his attention to Joro, who was dismally trying to get up on his feet.

Would the men never come? Roger did not realize that what had seemed to him many minutes had only been a matter of seconds. Now he heard the men coming, but he could not wait for them. The bull was advancing upon Joro. The man would certainly be killed if he got another beating from those sledge-hammer hooves.

Roger jumped in front of the bull, waved his arms and shouted, hoping to scare him off. He might as well have tried to scare the Rock of Gibraltar.

The bull came on, horns lowered. Roger instinctively seized the horns. If he could just manage to hang on, those horns couldn’t hurt him.

The bull angrily tossed his head. Up went Roger like a rocket. The first of the men came bursting through the bushes in time to see Roger in the air. His hands had been jerked loose from the horns. He came down with an ungraceful sprawl on the beast’s back.

The men came pouring in, shouting, grabbing at the bull’s tail, legs, horns.

This was too much, even for a king. He shook off his pursuers and took to his heels.

Roger had a free ride. He found himself half straddling the beast, gripping an ear with one hand and a horn with the other. If he slid off, this killer would take great pleasure in smashing him to smithereens with those meat-chopping hooves.

But the buffalo knew from long experience how to get rid of an undesired visitor. The lion attacks a four-footed animal by leaping upon its back. The leopard does the same. A clever buffalo, when thus attacked, looks for a tree with a low branch. He rushed through beneath it, hoping the branch-will scrape his enemy from his back.

The bull headed for a low-slung mopani tree. Roger did not wake up to his danger until it was almost too late.

He had to make a lightning-quick decision between staying on board until he was brushed off or perhaps squeezed to death by a low branch, and slipping off to run the risk of being danced upon by a ton of angry bull.

He let go and landed hard on a pile of rocks.

The bull had wonderful brakes. He stopped his mad run within his own length, spun about, and prepared to mash his enemy into the rocks. His snorting nose was within a foot of Roger’s face.

Roger seized the only weapon at hand. He grabbed a heavy rock and swung it with all his strength against that great twitching nose.

He did this by instinct - without a notion that he was doing exactly the right thing. The tip of the nose is the one tender spot of the buffalo’s anatomy. A good hard smash on that one vital spot takes all the fight out of him.

The bull drew back, his head swaying, his eyes popping with surprise.

Before he could collect his scattered wits, the men were upon him. Some held him by the broken lasso, some gripped him by the horns. As he leaped and bucked, others watched their chance and finally noosed the flying heels together, then the forefeet. The bull fell over on his right side, still puffing and snorting defiance.

The cars were brought in with some difficulty because of the thick underbrush and rocks. The first thing to do was to lay the injured Joro on the floor in the back of the Land-Rover, using as a bed the red blanket of Toreador Roger Hunt.

The captured bull was hauled up into his cage. Toto slipped in, cut the foot-nooses, slid out again and slammed shut the door before the bewildered animal could get to his feet.

Back in camp, Joro was bedded down in his tent, and Hal gave him a shot of a quarter-grain of morphine to relieve his pain. The drug acted within a few minutes. Hal went over the African’s body for breaks and bruises. There were bruises aplenty, but no breaks. To the men who had crowded into the tent, Hal reported:

‘His bones must be made of rubber to stand all that. He’ll be all right.’

Joro was grinning from ear to ear. That was not like Joro. He was usually grim and sour.

‘What’s so funny?’ Hal asked.

‘The young bwana? Joro said, looking at Roger. Then he went on to tell about the boy’s exploits - the toboggan ride at the end of the lasso, his performance with the fluttering red blanket, the way he had jumped in between the bull and Joro and grabbed the animal’s horns. The men roared with laughter as Joro described the boy’s rocket flight, how he had come down smack on the animal’s back, his wild ride until he had let go and landed on the rock pile, and then - that smash on the nose!

The African has his own sense of humour. It is tickled by stories of accidents. He thinks it very funny if someone takes a tumble - even if the one who tumbles is himself.