The Diamond Bogo

by Robert F. Jones

  “How far do you make it to the edge of the brush?” Nordquist asked Winjah.

  “About four hundred yards,” Winjah lied. “Give or take.” It was more like six hundred, but in the hard equatorial light at this altitude the Texan would be unlikely to notice the difference. Nordquist hunkered behind the air-cooled gun, adjusting the sights and checking the long brass-tipped bullets in the feeder belt. He cocked his Aussie hat down over his eyes and squinted through the sight.

  “Maybe I’ll just give ’em a leetle squirt,” he whispered. The main herd, only two or three hundred yards in front of them, was growing restive. The cows with calves were on their feet, staring back at the grassy draw in which the men lay. Tickbirds flapped and fluttered in consternation. The calves began a low anxious bawling. Nordquist hit the trigger.

  The machine gun roared for a full twenty seconds, bright brass flickering at blinding speed up into the snapping steel maw of the block, the barrel traversing madly right and left. Cows and calves leaped only to fall, kicking, under the clout of the heavy bullets. A cacophony of bovine bellows echoed back over the racket of the gun. The balance of the herd bolted toward the jungle, then suddenly pivoted and came charging back.

  “Cripes O’Grady!” Nordquist hollered, dropping the trigger grip of the gun. “They’re comin’ back at us!” He turned to run back toward the cycles but tripped over an ammo box. Winjah jumped up to the edge of the draw, facing the charge, and fired at the leaders—by now just a hundred yards away. At the sight and sound of the man, the herd spun once again and angled off to the left. Black bodies, whirling dust, an insane bellow, and the very earth shook to the hoofs. The wind carried the dust toward them in a gray billowing wall.

  “They’re turned,” Winjah said.

  “I knowed they would,” Nordquist said. “I was goin’ to get one of the bikes and try to herd ’em, Texas-style.” Then the wave of blowing dust washed over them.

  From up the line, in the dark whirl of dirt, came the snap of gunshots and a chorus of screams. Then the dust blew through, and in the hanging haze they saw small figures leaping, dancing, spearing. Tok. Winjah raised his rifle again but one of the ducklings slammed into him, running back to get his own weapon. Then the Tok were gone, lugging heavy burdens as they fled.

  Four Kansduvians lay headless at the tail of the draw. A fifth, blood bubbling through spear holes in his chest, lay face down and moaning over the body of a dead Tok. Other Kansduvians pulled the wounded man off, threw him roughly aside, and fell on the Tok body with their knives. Soon the wounded man stopped bubbling. The blood had redyed his camouflage shirt.

  That was only yesterday, Donn thought. Then last night, two more guards. No wonder the officer decided to pull out. This was war. Hell, with casualty rates like that, it was almost as bad as automobile racing.

  “So you’re going to continue after the buffalo?” Winjah asked.

  “We’ll give it another day, anyways,” Nordquist said. “There’s nine of us, with you and your boys. We’ll just have to keep low, noses to the wind, and hope them Dorks ain’t a helluva lot braver than they been so far. I mean, they been sneakin’ in at night, and usin’ that dust cloud yesterday. They don’t want no direct confrontation with our firepower. Also, we got a pretty good idea where that bogus is now. If we can just sneak on up around the herd and get a decent shot at him … Damn, I wish they hadn’t of took that machine gun!”

  “We’ve still got these,” chanted the ducklings, waving their Uzis on high.

  “Yes,” said Winjah, “but so do the Tok. They’ve got the guns they took from the guards and those five they killed yesterday.”

  “Them little monkey-men will never figure out how to shoot ’em,” said Nordquist. “Or if they do, they’ll prob’ly end up shootin’ one another. Why, them ain’t real people. Them’s some kind of animals. Next to them a goddamn nigger’s a Albert Einstein.”

  Winjah shrugged and said nothing. He knew the Tok were merely biding their time, to what end he wasn’t sure. What he was sure of, though, was that the Tok could already have killed them all if they chose. The best bet, now that the troops had fled, would be for him and Donn to take off on their own, work out from the camp at night while the Nordquists slept, pick up the Tok trail and follow them back to their main camp, and there to seek Dawn and Bucky. Only by moving quietly, stealthily, using his bushcraft to its utmost, could they hope to avoid the Tok and effect the rescue. He dared not tell Nordquist, though. The Texan would certainly kill them rather than let them go off on their own. Yes, he thought. Avarice.

  They hunted out toward the edge of the forest that day, leaving the ducklings behind to guard the camp, with its valuable gasoline, cycles, and ammo. Again they picked up the herd, but with the machine gun incident still fresh in the buffalo mind they could not approach close enough for a shot. All afternoon they followed at a distance. The wind, which had blown strong from the northeast the previous two days, had died to faint whispers. It backed and eddied on them, sending their scent to the herd whenever they seemed to be making a fair approach. Each time the herd panicked and fled another half mile before calming and browsing again. Tsetse flies swarmed around them, stinging through their sweat.

  “Consarn it,” grumped Nordquist, swatting viciously at the flies, “I’ll never shoot me a bogus.”

  “You killed seventeen yesterday with the machine gun,” Winjah said.

  “Them don’t count. I was just tryin’ to clear ’em out of the way so I could get a shot at my trophy bogus.” He swatted and flapped some more. “Anyways, the nig-nogs et all that meat. They carried it off with them when they headed for the barn this mornin’. Yeah.” He smiled reminiscently. “That was fun. Reminded me of the old army days, over in Frozen Chosen. Was you in Korea, Winjah?”

  “Yes,” the hunter replied. “For most of it.”

  “You Limeys was pussy over there,” Nordquist said. “Now, them Greeks and them Turks, they was somethin’. But not the Limejuicers.”

  Winjah said nothing. He had been in a special commando. It had been the first time he had killed men with his bare hands. It won’t have been the last, he thought.

  Just then the wind backed, gusted briefly, and the herd bolted again. They all stood up, watching the black mud-caked rumps bounce out of sight. The sun was swinging low now, and they would have to head back. Then, just as they were about to turn, they saw it.

  The Diamond Bogo stepped from the edge of the jungle, half a mile ahead of them, huge as a house. He stared in their direction. The westering sun picked the facets of the great stone. It blazed at them for a long half minute.

  Nordquist stood with his mouth hung wide. A tendril of saliva rolled over his cracked lower lip and disappeared into the stubble of his beard. His eyes, behind the tiny glasses, were bright as the bogo’s diamond.

  Then the buffalo turned and the jungle swallowed him up.

  27

  “SAVED BY THE BELT!”

  Dawn reclined on her cushions, awaiting Clickrasp’s nightly visit. At her side, purring like an outboard motor with a ragged carburetor, lay Kricket the Caracal. The Tok, generally speaking, were not pet fanciers. A few of the children kept dassies, captured in the rocks and hills behind the city, and every house had its share of virtually tame lizards, which spent the evenings on the ceilings and walls, hopping on disk-cupped feet and cleaning up whatever insects strayed into the dwelling. But only Clickrasp had a caracal. The caracal is the African lynx, a long-eared, long-legged cousin of the North American wildcat, with a thick, soft, almost wine-red coat unmarked by spots or stripes. Kricket had taken to Dawn right from the start, rubbing her forehead briskly against Dawn’s legs the moment they met.

  “It’s not really affection,” Clicky had said. “They have scent glands between their ears, and they rub against things—furniture, rocks, trees, people—so that they can recognize them. Own them, in effect. It’s like dogs urinating on trees and fence posts to mark their territory.” But Dawn didn’t
care. She stroked the cat behind its tall tufted ears, then down its slim brawny neck. When she sat down, the cat eased into her lap, purring for more.

  “Her name is Kr’tzk’,” Clicky said. “It’s onomatopoeic. Notice now loud she purrs.”

  “I’ll call her Kricket, if you don’t mind,” Dawn replied. “How come you people have no dogs? All human beings love dogs …” She trailed off, fearing she might have offended him with the unwitting remark.

  “We too love dogs,” Clickrasp said graciously. “Too much, I’m afraid. Frankly, we eat them.”

  “Oh.”

  She gazed absently around the room, painfully aware that the chitchat had ended. Trophies of the chase adorned the walls. The hide of a leopard that had to measure a good nine feet, its tail curved in a wicked, snakelike sweep, but sadly truncated by the absence of its head. A set of rhinoceros-hoof wastebaskets. The forelegs of antelope, bent at the ankle, serving as wall-mounted spear racks. Against the far wall, serving as beams to hold the fireplace mantle, stood two enormous tusks, fully eight feet tall, she estimated, but straight, not curved like those of the elephants she was familiar with.

  “Those are the tusks of a long-extinct elephant that once lived in the Sahara,” Clicky explained. “An ancestor of mine saved them. He must have killed the brute some twenty thousand years ago. I suppose it was the largest ever taken, and that’s why he kept the ivory. The tusks weigh 256 and 262 pounds respectively.”

  “He must have been quite a hunter,” Dawn said, desperately seeking to prolong the conversation. “To kill that big an animal with only a spear.”

  “Not really,” Clicky answered, taking the bait. “Judging by the paintings that have survived, they used fire to drive the animals over cliffs, or into bogs, where they could spear them with impunity as they struggled in the muck and mire.”

  “Have you killed elephants that way?” she asked.

  “Not lately,” Clicky said. “The elephants around here are a bit too clever, too fierce. I feel it’s unsporting to use fire, or to drive them even if they could be driven into pits or bogs. And it’s too costly to hunt them straight. We are short of warriors as it is—or was, now that you and Bucky will be working in our behalf.” He smiled and actually twirled his seedy moustache.

  “I … I admire elephant hunters,” Dawn chirped, cursing to herself as her voice broke. “Winjah is a great elephant hunter. I would certainly admire you a lot more if you killed an elephant for me.”

  “We shall see,” said Clicky. “Now, let’s get down to business.” He began to unstrap the bamboo splints that held his wounded member. Once they were off, he tested it for tensile strength, wincing slightly but clearly satisfied with its recuperative powers. “Yes, not quite tickety-poo just yet,” he said. “But it should do. In case you’ve wondered at the, er, constant rigidity of the member, it’s not due to any great lust on our part. We’re not actually ‘satyrs,’ in the usual sense of the word. There are two cartilaginous uprights, as it were, that extend the full length of the shaft. Your well-aimed blow of the other evening managed to sprain one of them. Had I not been so carried away with ‘brain fever,’ as we call it, I would easily have avoided the chop. The organ seems usually to have eyes of its own. That’s how we can run through the thorn nyika so easily, without seriously injuring ourselves. Though I must admit that the, shall we say, retractable mating gear of your species seems a far superior adaptation to a hunting way of life.” He smiled suavely and sat down beside her.

  “I wish we could put it off for tonight,” Dawn said. “Just tonight. I’m fully aware that I’ll have to give in to you sooner or later, and really, I’ve come to like you a lot. I really love the city, and the good taste you’ve shown in your interior decor. But I…” She cast wildly about for another excuse. “I … I’ve got a splitting headache tonight and …” She stopped. “Really.”

  Clickrasp had laughed. He stood and restrapped his splints.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t rush you. We’ve plenty of time. I was crude the other night and I vowed I wouldn’t act that way again. Tomorrow night, Fair Dawn Lady.” With that, he left.

  But now it was tomorrow night.

  “Oh, Kricket,” Dawn purred to the lynx, “what can I do?”

  Her eyes fell on a diamond-bladed knife that lay on the low table from which she took her meals. If I killed him … No, they’d kill me right back, or worse. At least Clicky is kind, sort of. Should I kill myself? Too melodramatic, and besides it hurts. She thought of the Philadelphian who had built the hot bath and then committed seppuku. Her stomach cramped. Then she heard the front door open. Footsteps nearing her room. Heavy breathing. The beaded curtain that masked the door snickered to a faint breeze. The lynx arched its back and hissed.

  “Good evening, my dear,” said Clickrasp as he entered. “I thought we might sup before we continued our little tete-a-tete.” He carried a tray heavy with steaming bowls and cutlery. A single green and orange orchid floated in an opalescent bowl.

  “What is it?” Dawn asked, sniffing the delicious aroma that rose from the serving dish.

  “Just a little dish I whipped up for your delectation,” Clickrasp replied, swiftly and surely setting the table for two. “I won’t tell you precisely what it is. Let’s make a game of it. You tell me what it is.” He whisked the top from the dish.

  “Voilà!” he said. Then he began serving.

  It’s some kind of stew, Dawn thought, tasting. Large squares of a pale sweet meat, no doubt simmered in a white court bouillon, then stewed in something like Madeira. Covered with a wonderful garnish—let’s see, quenelles, perhaps of veal. Mushrooms. Blanched olives, it would seem. Yes kidney. And a freshwater crayfish? Yup. What’s this—truffles! How marvelous! And this little gizmo? Yecch! It looks like a rooster’s comb. Hmm, but it doesn’t taste so bad. Not bad at all. Tongue, yes, and of course the inevitable sliced brains.

  Clicky waited expectantly, a half-smile on his face as he watched her sample the stew. He rolled a bowl of white wine absently in his cupped hands as he watched.

  “I’d say it was Tète de veau à la financière,” Dawn said finally. “Or something very much like it.”

  “Spot on!” exclaimed Clicky. “Marvelous. You guessed it right off. Actually, though, it’s not really calf’s head. We don’t have any such creatures available to us. It’s the head of a young oribi, but just as good to my palate.” He helped himself to a plateful of the stew and began eating. “I’ve underrated your culinary perspicacity,” he said between eager mouthfuls. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to learn that we have this in common.”

  Dawn ate hungrily, glad to have pleased Clickrasp and proud of her gustatory knowledge. Had Clicky told her that the dish was actually prepared from the head of a Kansduvian recruit named Phillip Tabatote, killed yesterday by his warriors, her appetite might have left her. But the dish would still have tasted as good.

  A salad of Tok lettuce and avocado vinaigrette, followed by a bowl of mixed fruit in a sweet wine, concluded the repast. Clicky then produced another surprise—coffee.

  “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” he admitted. “Took it just a month ago from an Arab caravan we raided up north of here, so it should still be fairly fresh. If you’re a good girl tonight, I’ll have some more brewed for our breakfast.”

  “I didn’t realize the caravan routes ran that close to Kansdu,” Dawn said quickly.

  “Oh, yes. The main route from the Upper Nile to Timbuktu passes not a three-day march from here. We go out the back way, not the way I brought you in. It’s bloody fierce desert out there, but we know all the spots where water can be dug in the sand rivers. Better even than the Arabs. But there I go, boasting again. Forgive me.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Dawn, fanning herself as she finished her coffee.

  “Yes,” Clicky observed solicitously, “it is a bit warm in here. Shall we retire to the garden for some air?” He poured two goblets of
brandy from a pottery decanter and stood.

  A cool breeze fanned through the garden, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and a faint hint of woodsmoke to their nostrils. The moon, just easing up over the low rolling mountains to the east, varnished the already waxy leaves of the surrounding trees. Frogs piped on the verge of the spring in Click’s backyard. A bat flicked past, its wings golden in the pale wash of the moonlight, and Dawn ducked involuntarily, spilling a splash of her brandy. She laughed. Clicky put an arm around her, reassuringly. My God, she thought with a barely contained shudder, the top of his noggin only comes to my armpit!

  “There’s nothing to fear, my love,” he whispered up at her. She saw the moonlight glinting on the silver hairs of his moustache, on the ultrabright of his small clean teeth. His arm was terribly strong.

  Then she was on her back in the greensward, Clicky between her thighs. She saw that the terrible machine was unsheathed, unsplinted. Clickrasp stared down at her, smiling gently, as he reached for the top of her leopard-skin skirt. She could hardly breathe, and her heart raced wildly up toward her throat. That was it!

  Clickrasp pulled the skirt free and stared down, between her inner thighs. A look of puzzlement crossed his face. Then it contorted into one of disgust. He leaped to his feet, gagging, and dashed into the shrubbery. She could hear him retching as he ran, his footsteps pounding, pounding, out of the yard, into the fading distance.

  What the hell?

  She looked down at herself. The insides of her thighs were dark with blood. Omigosh! she thought suddenly. That’s what the cramps were. I’d forgotten—yes—it’s right on time. She began to laugh, slowly at first, then with increasing hysteria until she was in tears. Exhausted, finally, she rose to her feet and went inside, fumbled in her shoulder bag, and came up with her pads and belt.

  “That’s something,” she said aloud as she slipped into it. “Winjah would enjoy the pun. Saved by the belt.”