The man at Kambala

THE MAN AT
KAMBALA
by
Kay Thorpe

THE crocodile lay half submerged in the mud — an island of mottled greens and browns which formed a perfect camouflage against the earth bank behind it. At the plop of the stone on the surface of the water it came suddenly and swiftly to life, sliding forward and under, dragging behind it a spike-ridged tail which seemed to go on
forever
.

Sixteen feet if it was an inch, judged Sara from her vantage point on the far bank. Her largest yet.

She slid down and away from the grass-screened hollow and rolled over, brushing dust and debris from the front of her faded shirt and jeans with a careless hand. Then she sat for a moment looking out towards the distant sapphire-hued heights of the Mara Escarpment, allowing her eyes to drift down the rolling swell of the plains stretching away to the south. The Masai were setting their grass fires again; necessary to them to bring up new forage for their cattle, but sometimes too dangerously close to the track for comfort. Only last week her father had been forced to return to the station right through the middle of the crackling grass with the smoke practically smothering him. At least today the wind was in the other direction.

Her father would be on the plane now, heading for England. If his only brother hadn't died so suddenly, Sara doubted that he ever would have gone back. She herself had been only eight years old when they had
come out here to East Africa, and could barely remember anything about her homeland. There had always been the intention of taking a holiday there one year, but somehow it had never quite materialized, and after her mother's death when she was twelve even the intention had faded into the never-never-land of one day. It was soon after this that her father's interest in wild life ecology had culminated in the offer of a position with the Game Department. Sara had still been at school when he had been posted to the Mara-Masai Reserve in charge of Kambala Station, and she had been forced to wait a whole six months before she was able to join him. She smiled, remembering the early days after her arrival. She had been so green, so unprepared for the vastness of it all. It had terrified her, and yet enthralled her. Now, three years later, it still enthralled her, but the terror bad faded to respect. Out here there was a quality of time forgotten, a sharpening of the senses which gave every sight, every sound a clarity such as she had never experienced anywhere else. In three years she had made the four-hundred-mile round trip to Nairobi only once, and she had no particular desire to go again. Not yet, at any rate. This was her kind of life.

The sun was slanting fast. It was time to be getting back. She had told Ted that she wouldn't be gone longer than an hour. Not that he would worry about her if she was a bit late back. Like her father, he took it for granted that she knew enough by now not to take any risks. She reached for the gun lying in the grass at her side and came to her feet in one lithe movement, raking her fingers through her sun-bleached crop to get

rid of any exploring insect life. She had left the Land-Rover parked just within the belt of forest edging the river. She made her way back to it along the narrow game trail by which she had entered, and reversed carefully out on to the track. She had seen what she had come to see, and that was always a good thought to take back with you. Kimani's largest croc to date was a fifteen-footer, although Ted claimed to have seen one approaching twenty. The trouble was that you never knew when he was serious. He could tell the tallest stories and have you believing them.

A couple of Masai were coming along the track on their way to the village beyond the ridge, long slender legs covering the ground smoothly, brown togas flying out behind. Sara slowed to pass them; there was the usual cordial exchange of Jambos, the flash of magnificent teeth, and they were past and gone. Tomorrow she must make the trip out to the village again. Mgari's third wife would have had her baby by now, and would be eager to show it off. This would be her fifth — or was it her sixth? Yet the girl couldn't be very much more than her own nineteen years. Kimani had said the other day that it wouldn't be long before the tribe began to think about moving on again. The pasturage within easy reach of the present boma was just about finished. Sara didn't want them to go, but she knew that it was inevitable. The Masai were nomadic by nature. One day they would all of them simply pick up their movable possessions and trek with their cattle until they found a suitable place to build a new home, and the huts they had left would stand empty until time and termites had reduced them to

decay. There was a village just like that some ten miles away towards the Escarpment, abandoned before Sara had come here.

The track forked up ahead, the right hand going on towards the Escarpment, the left doubling back and up over a low ridge and into the trees. Sara took it cautiously, avoiding the potholes left from the last rains. It was always bad just here owing to the roots undermining the surface, and nothing very much could be done about those. She had got a wheel stuck once and had sat for a whole hour with a herd of elephant browsing within two hundred feet of her. Not that she had felt in any real danger. The wind had been in her favour, and like most wild animals the elephant seemed to regard a stationary vehicle without suspicion. There was a glint of water ahead of her, another loop of the same Mara river where she had watched the crocodile some twenty minutes ago. The track turned and ran parallel to the water for a few minutes, then switched back to emerge once more from the trees into a wide clearing sweeping up to the forty-foot bluff which protected Kambala from the rear.

The first time she had seen the station, Sara had not been overly impressed by the rambling, palm-thatched bungalow with its broad, shady verandas and shabby furnishings. Little had changed since then, she supposed. Still the same crop of outbuildings, the same wire enclosures. The orphanage was her own special project, although the only inmate at the moment was a, tiny dik-dik fawn which Kimani had found beside its dead mother in the thicket above the river and brought back for her to nurse until it was old enough to fend for

itself. At least that was the idea. Already it followed her around like a shadow whenever she let it out of the pen, watching her every move with those huge mouse eyes ringed in white. She had a feeling that the little creature would eventually join Kiki, her Sykes monkey, as a household pet rather than be turned out to take its chances on the plains.

Engrossed in her thoughts, she was almost at the house before she realized that the Land-Rover parked at the foot of the steps was not one of those belonging to the station, despite the Department's markings on the side. They hadn't been expecting her father's relief until the following day, but obviously he had managed to make it a day early. Sara drew up behind the other vehicle with a feeling of pleasant She had met Bruce Madden when she had been in Nairobi with her father, and had liked him. Having him in charge for the six weeks of her father's leave wouldn't be at all bad.

She was half-way up the steps when a shout froze her in her tracks. Next minute Kiki came scampering through the doorway to leap into her arms and from there to her shoulder, where he sat chattering wildly and clutching hold of her hair with one paw while with the other he clasped a cigarette case to his skinny little chest. Close on his heels came a man in drill slacks and shirt who stopped abruptly at the sight of Sara standing there with the monkey hanging round her neck. In that long moment of suspended animation a pair of grey eyes went over her from head to toe and back again, openly appraising her slender young body and piquant features.

`Are you Dave Macdonald's daughter?' he demanded.

Something in his tone made her bristle. 'Yes,' she said shortly. 'If you've come to see my father he left for England yesterday.'

`I know that,' he said. 'What I can't understand is why you aren't with him. There was nothing said about his leaving you behind.'

She said slowly, 'I decided I didn't want to go. I don't suppose Dad saw any particular reason why he should inform the office that I was staying on at home. Isn't Bruce Madden coming?'

His eyebrows lifted faintly. 'No, he isn't. He had a bad attack of malaria and finished up in hospital. I'm Steve York.' He looked beyond her to the car she had just vacated. 'Have you been out on your own?'

`Yes.' Her blue eyes sparked. Anything wrong in that?'

`Plenty. It's asking for trouble to let a kid your age run round a game reserve as if it were a play park. Your father should have more sense. Or were you just taking advantage of his absence?'

`No, I wasn't ! And I'm no kid.' Her heart was sinking more by the second. Were they going to have to put up with this substitute for the whole of the six weeks? She studied him from beneath her lashes, taking in the broad shoulders beneath the bush shirt, the general hardness of his tall, lean body, the tanned angular features and thick sweep of dark brown hair. He was what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? Surely not old enough to have the kind of sweeping authority his tone suggested. And certainly nowhere near old enough to

have the kind of experience both her father and Bruce

Madden possessed.

She realized suddenly that he was looking right back at her with a glint of amusement in his eyes, and felt herself colour. Were her thoughts that obvious? She said swiftly, 'I suppose you've already met Ted Willis?'

`I haven't met anyone yet, apart from your two
house servants,' he returned. B
ut then I've only been here about an hour. Perhaps you can tell me where the devil everybody is.'

`Kimani Ngogi is out tracking down some poachers,' she said. 'He took four rangers with him, the rest are out on patrol. Ted must be around somewhere. He wouldn't leave the station unmanned.'