Cry Wolf

in the lantern light.

"Sweet and merciful Mother of God!" he cried. "What in the name of

Peter and all the saints is that?" Nobody could answer him, in fact

nobody showed any interest in the question whatever, and the Count had

to move swiftly to catch up with his armed escort which had already

started back towards the bivouac in a sprightly fashion.

Once within the security of his own brightly lit tent, and surrounded

by his hastily assembled staff, the Count's pulse rate returned to

normal, and one of his officers suggested that the native

Eritrean guides be sent for and questioned on the terrible night sounds

that had plunged the entire battalion into consternation.

"Lion?" said the Count, and then again, "Lion!" Instantly the

formless terrors of the night evaporated, for by this time the first

light of dawn was gleaming in the east, and the Count's breast swelled

with the fierce instincts of the huntsman.

"It appears, my Colonel, that the beasts will be feeding on the

antelope carcasses that you left lying out on the desert," the

interpreter explained. "The smell of blood has attracted them."

aGi no snapped the Count. "Fetch the Ma

bring the Rolls-Royce to my tent immediately." My Colonel,"

protested

Major Luigi Castelani. "The battalion, by your own orders, is to march

at dawn."

"I Countermanded!" snapped the Colonel. Already he imagined the

magnificent trophy skin spread before his Louis XIV desk in the library

of his castle. He would have it prepared with wide open jaws,

flashing white fangs and fierce yellow glass eyes. The picture of open

jaws and fangs suddenly reminded him with considerable force of his

nerve racking brush with the beisa oryx. "Major," he ordered, "I

want twenty men to accompany me, a truck to transport them, full battle

order, and one hundred rounds of ammunition each." The Count was not

about to take any more silly chances.

The lion was a fully mature male, six years of age, and, like most of

the desert strain of leo panthers, he was much larger than the forest

lions. He stood well over three feet high at the shoulder, and he

weighed in excess of four hundred pounds. The late sun enhanced the

sleek reddish ochre of his skin and transformed his mane into a glowing

halo of gold. The mane was dense and long, framing the broad flattened

head, reaching far back beyond the shoulder, and hanging so low under

his chest and belly as almost to sweep the earth.

He walked stiffly, head held very low and swinging heavily from side to

side with each laborious step. His breathing came with a low explosive

grunt at each exhalation, and occasionally he stopped and swung his

head to snap irritably at the buzzing blue cloud of flies that swarmed

about the wound in his flank. Then he would lick at the small dark

hole from which pale watery blood oozed steadily.

The long pink tongue curled out and, rough as shagreen, rasped against

the supple hide. The constant licking had away the hair around the

wound, giving it a pale worn shaven appearance.

The 9.3 Marmlicher bullet had caught him at the instant he had begun to

turn away to run. It had angled in from two inches behind the last

rib, striking with a force of nine tons that had bowled the lion down,

rolling him in a cloud of pale dust. The copper-jacketed bullet was

tipped with soft expanding lead, and it mushroomed as it raked the

belly cavity, lacerating the bowels and tearing four large abdominal

veins. The slug had passed close enough to the kidneys to bruise both

of them severely, so now, when the lion stopped, arched his back and

crouched to pass a spattering of bloodstained urine, he groaned like

the roll of drums at an execution. Then, finally, the bullet had

struck the arch of the pelvic girdle and lodged there against the

bone.

After the first massive shock of impact, the lion had rolled to his

feet and flattened into a dead streaking run, jinking away below the

level of the coarse scrub. Although a dozen more bullets had thrown up

soft jumping spurts of dust around him, one so close as to throw grit

into his eyes, not another touched him.

There had been seven lions in the pride. Another older, heavier,

darker-maned male, two younger daintier breeding females, one with her

lithe-wasted body thickened with the heavy bearing of young in her

womb, and three immature animals still dappled with their cub spots and

boisterous as kittens.

The younger male was the only one to survive that long shattering roll

of rifle fire, and now as he moved on he felt the thick jelly-like

weight of congealing blood sloshing back and forth across his belly

cavity at each step. There was a heavy lethargy slowing his

movements,

but thirst drove him onwards. Thirst was a scalding agony that

consumed his whole body, and the lower pools of the Awash River were a

dozen miles ahead.

In the dawn Priscilla the Pig was heavily bogged down on her belly with

all four wheels helpless in the porridge of pale salt mire below the

crust of the pan.

Jake stripped to the waist and swung the long two handed axe

relentlessly, while the others gathered the piles of thorny scrub he

mowed down, and, cursing at the pricks and scratches, carried them out

across the snowy surface of the pan.

Jake worked with a self punishing fury, angry with his lack of

attention which had bogged the car and was going to cost them a day at

the least. It was no valid excuse that exhaustion and heat had clouded

his judgement that he had not recognized the treacherous smooth white

surface of the pan for Gregorius had warned him specifically of this

hazard. He worked with the axe from an hour before sunrise until the

heat had climbed with the sun and a small mountain of cut branches

stood beside the car.

Then Gareth helped him build a firm foundation of flat stones and

thicker branches under the engine compartment of the car. They had to

lie on their sides and grovel in the dust to get the big screw jack set

up on the base and they slowly lifted the front of the car, turning the

handle between them.

As the front wheels rose an inch at a time, Vicky and Gregorius packed

the wiry scrub branches under them. It was slow and laborious work

which had to be repeated at the rear of the car.

it was past noon before Priscilla the Pig stood forlornly balanced on

four piles of compacted branches but her belly was clear of the surface

"What do we do now?" Gareth asked. "Drive her back?"

"One spin of the wheels will kick that trash out and she'll bog down

again," Jake grunted, and wiped his sweat glistening chest on the

bundled shirt in his hand. He looked at Gareth and felt a flare of

irritation that after five hours" work in the sun, after grovelling on

his belly in the dust, and heaving on the jack handle, the man had

barely raised a/

sweat, his clothes were unmarked and final provocation his hair was

still neatly combed.

Working under Jake's direction, they cut and laid a corduroy of

branches back to the hard ground at the edge of the pan. This would

distribute the weight of the vehicle and prevent it breaking through

the crust again.

Then Vicky manoeuvred and reversed Miss Wobbly down to the edge of the