Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur (электронная книга TXT) 📗
They wore him down, and after an hour of struggling, the mule stood at last, shaking piteously and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows, but with the dead lion securely lashed upon his back.
When Lothar took the lead rope and tugged upon it, the mule stumbled along meekly behind him, following him down towards the bend in the river.
From the top of one of the low wooded koppies Lothar looked down across the Swakop river to the roofs and the church spire of the village beyond. The Swakop made a wide bend, and in the elbow directly below there were three small green pools hemmed in with yellow sandbanks. The river flowed only in the rieperioer rain.
They were watering the horses at the pools, bringing them down from the stockades of thorn branches on the bank to drink before closing them in for the night. The count had been right, the army buyers had chosen the best. Lothar watched them avariciously through his binoculars. Desert bred, they were powerful animals, full of vigour as they frolicked and milled at the edge of the pool or rolled in the sand with their legs kicking in the air.
Lothar switched his attention to the drovers, and counted five of them, all coloured troopers in casual khaki uniform, and he looked for white officers in vain.
They could be in camp, he muttered and focused the glasses on the cluster of brown army tents beyond the horse stockades.
There was a low whistle from behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, Hendrick was signalling from the foot of the kopje. Lothar slid off the skyline and then scrambled down the slope. The mule, his blood-soaked burden still on his back, was tethered in the shade. He had become almost resigned to it, though every now and again he gave a spontaneous shudder and shifted his weight nervously. The men were lying under the sparse branches of the thorn trees, eating bully out of the cans and Pig John stood up as Lothar reached him.
You are late, Lothar accused him, and seizing the front of his leather vest he pulled him close and sniffed his breath.
Not a drop, Master, Pig John whined. I swear on my sister's virginity. That is a mythical beast. Lothar released him, and glanced down at the sack at Pig John's feet.
TWelve bottles. just like you said. Lothar opened the sack and took out a bottle of the notorious Cape Smoke. The neck was sealed with wax and the brandy was a dark poisonous brown when he held it to the light.
What did you find out in the village? He returned the bottle to the sack.
There are seven horse handlers at the camp I counted five. 'Seven. Pig John was definite and Lothar grunted.
What about the white officers? They rode out towards Otjiwaronga yesterday, to buy more horses. It will be dark in an hour. Lothar glanced at the sun.
Take the sack and go to the camp. What shall I tell them? 'Tell them you are selling, cheap, and then give them a free taste. You are a famous har, tell them anything. What if they don't drink? Lothar laughed at the improbability but didn't bother to answer. I will move after moonrise, when it clears the treetops. That will give you and your brandy four hours to soften them up. The sack clinked as Pig John slung it over his shoulder.
Remember, Pig John, I want you sober or I'll have you dead, and I mean it. Does Master think I am some kind of animal, that I can't take a drink like a gentleman? Pig John demanded and drawing himself up marched out of the camp with affronted dignity.
From his look-out Lothar watched Pig John cross the dry sandbanks of the Swakop and trudge up the far side under his sack. At the stockade the guard challenged him and Lothar watched through the glasses as they talked, until at last the coloured trooper set his carbine aside and peered into the neck of the sack that Pig John held open for him.
Even at that distance and in the deepening dusk, Lothar saw the flash of the guard's white teeth as he grinned with delight and turned to call his companions from the tented encampment. Two of them came out in their underclothes, and a long heated discussion ensued with a great deal of gesticulation and shoulder slapping and head shaking, until Pig John cracked the wax seal on one of the bottles and handed it to them. The bottle passed quickly from one to the other, and each of them pointed the base briefly at the sky like a bugler sounding the charge and then gasped and grinned through watering eyes. Finally, Pig John was led like an honoured guest into the encampment, lugging his sack, and disappeared from Lothar's view.
The sun set and night fell and Lothar remained on the ridge. Like a yachtsman he was intensely aware of the strength and direction of the night breeze as it switched erratically. An hour after dark it settled down into a steady warm stream on the back of Lothar's neck.
Let it hold, Lothar murmured, and then whistled softly, the cry of a scops owlet. Hendrick came almost at once and Lothar indicated the wind.
Cross the river well upstream and circle out beyond the camp. Not too close. Then turn back and keep the wind in your face. At that moment there was a faint shout from across the river and they both looked up. The camp-fire in front of the tents had been built up until the flames roared high enough to lick the under branches of the camel-thorn trees and silhouetted against them were the dark figures of the coloured troopers.
what the hell do you think they are doing? Lothar wondered. 'Dancing or fighting? By now they don't know themselves, Hendrick chuckled.
They were reeling around the fire, colliding and clinging together, then separating, collapsing in the dust and crawling on their knees, or with enormous effort heaving themselves to their feet only to stand swaying with legs braced apart and then collapse again. One of them was stripped naked, his thin yellow body gleaming with sweat as he pirouetted wildly and then fell into the fire, to be dragged out by the heels by a pair of his companions, all three of them screeching with laughter.
Time for you to go. Lothar slapped Hendrick's shoulder.
Take Manie with you and let him be your horse holder. Hendrick started back down the slope but paused as Lothar A called softly after him, Manie is in your charge. You'll answer for him with your own life. Hendrick did not reply but disappeared into the night.
Half an hour later Lothar glimpsed them crossing the pale sandbanks of the river, a dark shapeless movement in the starlight, and then they were gone into the scrub beyond.
The horizon lightened and the stars in the east paled before the rising moon, but in the camp across the river the drunken gyrations of the troopers had now descended into swinish inertia. Through the glasses Lothar could make Out bodies, scattered haphazard like casualties on the battlefield, and one of them looked very much like Pig John, although Lothar couldn't be certain for he lay face down in the shadow on the far side of the fire.
If it's him, he's a dead man, Lothar promised and stood up. It was time to move at last, for the moon was clear of the horizon, horned and glowing like a horseshoe from the blacksmith's forge.
Lothar picked his way down the slope, and the mule snorted and blew through his nostrils, still standing miserably under his dreadful burden.
Almost over now. Lothar stroked his forehead. You've done well, old fellow. He loosed the head halter, adjusted the Mauser slung over his shoulder and led the mule around the side of the kopje and down the bank to the river.
There was no question of a stealthy approach, not with that great pale animal and his swaying load. Lothar unslung the rifle and rimmed a cartridge into the breech as they plodded through the sand of the riverbed and he watched the line of trees on the bank ahead, even though he expected no challenge.
The camp-fire had died down, and there was complete silence until they climbed the bank and Lothar heard the stamp of a hoof and the soft fluttering breath of one of the animals in the stockade ahead. The breeze was behind Lothar, steady still, and suddenly there was a shrill unhappy whinny.
