The Angels Weep Read Free

instant, horse
and rider and lion seemed to disappear into the very earth, and
there was only a swirling column of dust to mark where they had
been. Yet the shattering roars of the enraged animal and Jan
Cheroot’s howls of terror grew even louder as Ralph
galloped up to the point on the ridge where they had
disappeared.
    With the Winchester in one hand he kicked his feet from the
stirrup irons and jumped from the saddle, letting his own
momentum throw him forward until he stood on the edge of a
sheer-sided pitfall at the bottom of which lay a tangle of
heaving bodies.
    ‘The devil is killing me!’ screamed Jan Cheroot,
and Ralph could see him pinned beneath the body of the horse. The
horse must have broken its neck in the fall, it was a lifeless
heap with head twisted up under its shoulder and the lion was
ripping the carcass and saddle, trying to reach Jan Cheroot.
    ‘Lie still,’ Ralph shouted down at him.
‘Give me a clear shot!’
    But it was the lion that heard him. He left the horse and came
up the vertical side of the pit with the ease of a cat climbing a
tree, his glossy muscular hindquarters driving him lightly
upwards and his pale yellow eyes fastened upon Ralph as he stood
on the lip of the deep hole.
    Ralph dropped on one knee to steady himself for the shot, and
aimed down into the broad golden chest. The jaws were wide open,
the fangs long as a man’s forefinger and white as polished
ivory, the deafening clamour from the open throat dinned into
Ralph’s face. He could smell the rotten-flesh taint of the
lion’s breath and flecks of hot saliva splattered against
his cheeks and forehead.
    He fired, and pumped the loading-handle and fired again, so
swiftly that the shots were a continuous blast of sound. The lion
arched backwards, hung for a long moment from the wall of the
pit, and then toppled and fell back upon the dead horse.
    Now there was no movement from the bottom of the pit, and the
silence was more intense than the shattering uproar that had
preceded it.
    ‘Jan Cheroot, are you all right?’ Ralph called
anxiously.
    There was no sign of the little Hottentot, he was completely
smothered by the carcasses of horse and lion.
    ‘Jan Cheroot, can you hear me?’
    The reply was in a hollow, sepulchral whisper. ‘Dead men
cannot hear – it’s all over, they have got old Jan
Cheroot at last.’
    ‘Come out from under there,’ Zouga Ballantyne
ordered, as he stepped up to Ralph’s shoulder. ‘This
is no time to play the clown, Jan Cheroot.’
    R alph dropped a
coil of manilla rope down to Jan Cheroot, and between them they
hauled him and the saddle from the dead horse to the surface. The
excavation into which Jan Cheroot had fallen was a deep narrow
trench along the crest of the ridge. In places it was twenty feet
deep, but never more than six feet wide. Mostly it was choked
with creepers and rank vegetation, but this could not disguise
the certainty that it had been dug by men.
    ‘The reef was exposed along this line,’ Zouga
guessed, as they followed the edge of the old trench, ‘the
ancient miners simply dug it out and did not bother to
refill.’
    ‘How did they blast the reef?’ Ralph demanded.
‘That’s solid rock down there.’
    ‘They probably built fires upon it, and then quenched it
with water. The contraction cracked the rock.’
    ‘Well, they seem to have taken out every grain of the
ore body and left nary a speck for us.’
    Zouga nodded. ‘They would have worked out this section
first, and then when the reef pinched out they would have started
sinking potholes along the strike to try and intercept it
again.’ Zouga turned to Jan Cheroot and demanded,
‘Now do you recognize this place, Jan Cheroot?’ And
when the Hottentot hesitated, he pointed down the slope.
‘The swamp in the valley down there, and the teak
trees—’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Jan Cheroot clapped his hands, and his
eyes twinkled with delight. ‘This is