The Shangani Patrol Read Free Page B

and mouthed, ‘Big.’ Then he moved slightly to his right and nodded his head forward. The signal was clear: kill. Kill now.
     
    Fonthill licked his dry lips and inched forward, raising his rifle to the shoulder. Where was the target spot? Ah yes, just above and behind the front leg. Not easy to define from the rear, with the mane spreading so far down the body. He squinted through the foresight. Damn! It was set at one hundred yards. At point-blank range he would overshoot by miles. Feeling Mzingeli’s disapproval radiating towards him, he lowered the rifle and, with infinite care, pushed down the sight, then raised the rifle once more and focused on the sleeping animal. His finger tightened on the trigger . . . squeeze, don’t pull . . . and there it stayed, until the end of the long barrel began to sway a little with the weight of it.
     
    The lion was sleeping, sleeping . Fonthill had killed many men in the heat of battle or in one-to-one combat over the preceding years, but he had never killed anything that was not erect and facing him. This magnificent beast lay a few yards from him in perfect somnolence, completely unaware of the danger. It seemed somehow unfair, completely unfair, to kill him like this. It was not a killing, more an execution. He could not do it. Give the animal a fighting chance, at least.
     
    So Fonthill shouted, ‘Get up, you lazy bastard.’
     
    Immediately the sleeping thing became alive, very much alive. The lion was on its feet within a second, turning its great head towards the danger, its mouth open showing yellow incisor fangs and emitting a roar that boomed back from the rocks around. At that moment, Fonthill fired.
     
    The bullet tore through the muscles just behind the animal’s head, cutting a furrow through the mane and causing blood to spurt. Then, with one bound, the beast had gone, leaving behind the echo of the shot and a bloodstain on the rocky ground. From the other side of the rock came two responding roars and a scuffle as the lionesses, unseen, followed him.
     
    Fonthill and Mzingeli were left staring at each other. Neither spoke for a second or two, then Simon cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. I just couldn’t kill him while he was asleep. It seemed so . . . so . . . unfair somehow. I am sorry, Mzingeli.’
     
    Slowly, a smile spread across the tracker’s face. ‘I think I understand, Nkosi.’ Then the smile disappeared. ‘But now we have big problem. We cannot leave wounded animal. We must follow into bush and finish him. If he stay alive with wound, he cannot chase properly to hunt and he turn to eating men. Becomes man-killer. We must track him now into bush. Very dangerous.’
     
    ‘What happened?’ Alice and Jenkins had suddenly materialised, Alice’s eyes wide. Behind them - at some distance - appeared Ntini and Sando. ‘Oh, thank goodness you are all right.’ Alice clutched Simon’s arm. ‘What happened?’
     
    ‘Well, I . . . er . . . missed. That’s it really. No, it isn’t.’ Fonthill’s face was crestfallen. ‘The fact is, I just couldn’t kill the bloody thing at point-blank range when it was sleeping.’
     
    Mzingeli’s face was once again illuminated by his great grin. He interjected, ‘Nkosi shouted, “Wake up, lion” to make it fair. It is the English way, I think. I don’t see this before.’
     
    ‘Well,’ Jenkins’s expression was lugubrious, ‘it’s not the bloody Welsh way, I can tell you, Jelly. I would ’ave shot ’im up the arse if necessary, see.’
     
    Fonthill cleared his throat again. ‘Yes, well. I couldn’t do it and that’s that. Then I missed, although I wounded the beast. Now I must follow him and finish him off. It should be quite easy. I will have a blood spoor that will lead me to him, and this time I promise I won’t miss. You must all stay here because the lionesses are still about, but I would like Mzingeli to come with me, please.’
     
    ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Simon.’ Alice’s voice