Cry Wolf

broken off near the lip, but the other was thick and long and yellow,

worn to a blunt-rounded tip at the end of its curve.

The Captain stopped his tank a quarter of a mile from where the

elephant stood, and examined him through his binoculars while he got

over the shock of his size then the Captain began to smile, a wicked

twist of the mouth under his handsome mustache, and his dark eyes

sparkled.

"So, my dear Colonel, you want game, much game," he whispered.

"You will have it. I assure you." He approached the elephant

carefully from the east, crawling the tank in gingerly towards the

animal, and the old bull turned and watched them come. His ears were

spread wide and his long trunk sucked and coiled into his mouth as he

tested the air, breathing it onto the olfactory glands in his top lip

as he groped for the scent of this strange creature.

He was a bad-tempered old bull, who had been harried and hunted for

thousands of miles across the African continent, and beneath his

scarred and creased old hide were the spear-heads, the pot legs fired

from mule-loading guns, and the jacketed slugs from modern rifled

firearms. All he wanted now in his great age was to be left alone he

wanted neither the demanding company of the breeding cows, the

importunate noisy play of the calves, nor the single-minded pursuit of

the men who hunted him. He had come into the desert, to the burning

days and coarse vegetation to find that solitude, and now he was moving

slowly down to the Wells of Chaldi, water which he had last tasted as a

young breeding bull twenty-five years before.

He watched the buzzing growling things creeping in towards him,

and he tasted their rank oily smell, and he did not like it. He shook

his head, flapping his ears like the crash of canvas taking the wind on

a new tack, and he squealed a warning.

The growling humming things crept closer and he rolled his trunk up

against his chest, he cocked his ears half back and curled the tips but

the tank Captain did not recognize the danger signals and he kept on

coming.

Then the elephant charged, fast and massive, the fall of his huge pads

thumping against the earth like the beat of a bass drum, and he was so

fast, so quick off the mark that he almost caught the tank. If he had

he would have flicked it over on its back without having to exert all

his mountainous strength. But the driver was as quick as he,

and he swung away right under the outstretched trunk, and held his best

speed for half a mile before the bull gave up the pursuit.

"My Captain, I could shoot it with the Spandau," urged the gu

anxiously. He had not enjoyed the chase.

"No! No!" The Captain was delighted.

"He is a very angry, dangerous and ferocious animal," the gu

pointed out.

"SO" the Captain laughed happily, rubbing his hands together with glee.

"He is my very special gift to the Count." After the fifth approach by

the tanks, the old bull grew bored with the unrewarding effort of

chasing after them.

With his belly rumbling protestingly, his stubby tail twitching

irritably, and the musk from the glands behind his eyes weeping in a

long, wet smear down his dusty cheeks, he allowed himself to be

shepherded towards the west by the following line of cavalry tanks but

he was still a very angry elephant.

You're not going to believe this," said Gareth Swales softly. "I'm not

even sure I believe it myself. But it's an elephant, and it's leading

a full squadron of Eyetie tanks straight to us."

"I don't believe it," said Jake. "I can see it happening but I don't

believe it. They must have trained it like a bloodhound. Is that

possible, or am I going crazy?"

"Both," said Gareth. "May I suggest we get ready to move.

They are getting frightfully close, old son." Jake jumped down to the

crank handle, while Gareth dropped into the driver's hatch and swiftly

adjusted the ignition and throttle setting.

"All set," he said, glancing anxiously over his shoulder.

The great elephant was less than a thousand yards away.

Coming on steadily, in that long driving stride, a pace between a walk

and a trot that an elephant can keep up for thirty miles without check

or rest.

"You might hurry it up, at that," he added, and Jake spun the crank.

Priscilla made no response, not even a cough to encourage Jake as he

wound the crank frantically.

After a full minute, Jake staggered back gasping, and doubled over with

hands on his knees as he sucked for air.

"This bloody infernal machine-" Gareth began, but Jake straightened up

with genuine alarm.

"Don't start swearing at her, or she'll never start," he cautioned

Gareth, and he stooped to the crank handle again. "Come along now, my

darling," he whispered, and threw his weight on the crank.

Gareth took another quick glance over his shoulder. The bizarre

procession was closer, much closer. He leaned out of the driver's

hatch and patted Priscilla's engine-cowling tenderly.

"There's my love," he crooned. "Come along, my beauty." The

Count's hunting party sat out in collapsible camp chairs under the

screens, double canvas to protect them from the cruel sun. The mess

servants served iced drinks and light refreshments, and a random breeze

that flapped the canvas occasionally was sufficient to keep the

temperature bearable.

The Count was in an expansive mood, host to half a dozen of his

officers, all of them dressed in casual hunting clothes, armed with a

selection of sporting rifles and the occasional service rifle.

"I think we can rely on better sport today. I believe that our beaters

will be trying harder, after my gentle admonitions." He smiled and

winked, and his officers laughed dutifully. "Indeed, I am hoping-"

"My Count. My Count." Gino rushed breathlessly into the tent like a

frenzied gnome. "They are coming. We have seen them from the

ridge."

"Ah!" said the Count with deep satisfaction. "Shall we go down and

see what our gallant Captain of tanks has for us this time?" And he

drained the glass of white Wine in his hand, while Gino rushed over to

help him to his feet, and then backed away in front of him, leading him

to where Giuseppe was hastily removing the dust covers from the

Rolls.

The small procession, headed by the Count's Rolls, Royce, wound down

the slope of the low ridge to where the blinds had been sited in a line

across the width of the shallow valley. The blinds had been built by

the battalion engineers, dug into the red earth so as not to stand too

high above the low desert scrub. They were neatly thatched,

covered against the sun, with loopholes from which to fire upon the

driven game. There were comfortable camp chairs for those long waits

between drives, a small but well-stocked bar, ice in insulated

buckets,

a separate screened latrine in fact all the comforts to make the day's

sport more enjoyable.

The Count's blind was in the centre of the line. It was the largest

and most luxuriously appointed, situated so that the great majority of

driven game would bunch upon this point. His junior officers had

earlier learned the folly of exceeding the Colonel's"

personal bag or of firing at any animal which was swinging across their