The Leopard Woman | Page 4

and tail, and the sound of them was like
the roar of a cataract. Those seated on the ground moved forward in a
series of ungainly hops, trying for more haste by futile urgings of their
wings. Where the wildebeeste had fallen was a writhing, flopping,
struggling brown mass. In an incredibly brief number of seconds it was
all over. The birds withdrew. Some sat disgruntled and humpbacked in
the low trees; some merely hopped away a few yards to indulge in
gloomy thoughts. A few of the more ambitious rose heavily and
laboriously with strenuous beating of pinions, finally to soar grandly
away into the infinities of the African sky. Of the wildebeeste remained
only a trampled bloody space and bones picked clean. The jackals crept
forward at last. So brief a time did all this occupy that Maulo, looking
back, saw them.
"Ho, little dogs!" he cried with one of his great empty laughs; "your
stomachs will go hollow but you can fill your noses!"
They tramped on steadily toward the low narrow line of green trees,
and the sun sank toward the hills.

CHAPTER II
THE CAMP
The game trails converged at a point where the steep, eroded bank had
been broken down into an approach to a pool. The dust was deep here,
and arose in a cloud as a little band of zebra scrambled away. The
borders of this pool were a fascinating palimpsest: the tracks of many
sorts of beast had been impressed there in the mud. Both Kingozi and
Simba examined them with an approach to interest, though to an
observer the examination would have seemed but the most casual of
glances. They saw the indications of zebra, wildebeeste, hartebeeste,
gazelles of various sorts, the deep, round, well-like prints of the

rhinoceros, and all the other usual inhabitants of the veldt. But over
these their eyes passed lightly. Only three things could here interest
these seasoned African travellers. Simba espied one of them, and
pointed it out, just at the edge of the narrow border of softer mud.
"There is the lion," said he. "A big one. He was here this morning. But
no buffalo, _bwana_; and no elephant."
The water in the pool was muddy and foul. Thousands of animals drank
from it daily; and after drinking had stood or wallowed in it. The
flavour would be rich of the barnyard, which even a strong infusion of
tea could not disguise. Kingozi had often been forced to worse; but here
he hoped for better.
The safari had dumped down the loads at the top of the bank, and were
resting in utter relaxation. The march was over, and they waited.
Bwana Kingozi threw off the carefully calculated listless slouch that
had conserved his strength for an unknown goal. His work was not yet
done.
"Simba," he directed, "go that way, down the river[1] and look for
another pool--of good water. Take the big rifle."
[Footnote 1: Every watercourse with any water at all, even in
occasional pools, is _m'to_--a river--in Africa.]
"And I to go in the other direction?" asked Cazi Moto.
Bwana Kingozi considered, glancing at the setting sun, and again up
the dry stream-bed where, as far as the eye could reach, were no more
indications of water.
"No," he decided. "It is late. Soon the lions will be hunting. I will go."
The men sprawled in abandon. After an interval a shrill whistle
sounded from the direction in which Bwana Kingozi had disappeared.
The men stretched and began to rise to their feet slowly. The short rest

had stiffened them and brought home the weariness to their bones.
They grumbled and muttered, and only the omnipresence of Cazi Moto
and the threat of his restless whip roused them to activity. Down the
stream they limped sullenly.
Kingozi stood waiting near the edge of the bank. The thicket here was
very dense.
"Water there," he briefly indicated. "The big tent here; the opening in
that direction. Cook fire over there. Loads here."
The men who had been standing, the burdens still on their heads,
moved forward. The tent porter--who, by the way, was the strongest
and most reliable of the men, so that always, even on a straggling
march, the tent would arrive first--threw it down at the place selected
and at once began to undo the cords. The bearers of the kitchen, who
were also reliable travellers, set about the cook camp.
A big Monumwezi unstrapped a canvas chair, unfolded it, and placed it
near his master. The other loads were arranged here, in a certain
long-ordained order; the meat piled there. Several men then went to the
assistance of Mali-ya-bwana, the tent bearer; and the others
methodically took up various tasks. Some began with their pangas to
hew a