Dan started the engine, saying, “Get the rifles ready. No telling what we’ll find there.”
The scene they came upon seemed nothing to be concerned about. Near a large solitary boulder were two grazing cattle, and signs of a recent campfire.
“Well, no carrion here,” Diana said. “But even if there were, the vultures wouldn’t land with us about.”
“Yeah,” Dan replied, “Such fierce-looking birds. It’s amazing how timid they are.”
Diana laughed at that. “Birds survive mainly because of their caution. With their light hollow bones, any real fighting can lead to a broken wing, their very means of survival.”
“That gives another meanin’ ta the word ‘chicken,’ ah think,” the Texan drawled, chuckling.
At that he pulled back the bolt of his BAR, flipping off the safety, Diana instinctively sending a cartridge into the chamber of her Winchester at the same time.
“Hey, wait,” Dan exclaimed, “It’s just a couple of cows.”
Diana whispered, “Shush, Danny, I heard a groan from behind that big rock.”
Chet nodded, “That’s ma take too.”
Suddenly, the sharp snap of passing bullets split the heated air, making holes in the windshield in two places, followed by the reports of rifle fire. The three hunters, who were now the hunted, hit the dusty ground simultaneously.
The big Texan remarked, “The fire is comin’ from behind that pile of rocks, a couple hundred yards on the other side of that boulder. We’ll be safe if we keep behind it. You two crawl over there while ah circle around in the grass ta get behind ’em.”
“Careful, Chet,” Diana called, “There must be close to a half dozen of them, whoever they are!”
“They’ll be no match for my big automatic rifle,” he answered, “As long as you two keep shooting in their direction frequently enough to make ’em keep their heads down.”
As the Pinkerton man struggled through the grass, with his vest of ammunition and his heavy Browning, Diana and Dan, keeping the shelter of the boulder between them and their assailants, ran the fifty yards needed to put them into position.
Dan was concerned for her safety, and said, “Di, stay back behind this rock, and I’ll keep up a steady fire, leading them to think that all three of us are here.”
As he took his position and began firing at the rockpile a hundred and fifty yards away, she circled the half-buried boulder, hearing that groan again, closer, and just around the corner. Keeping her head down, she literally slithered toward the sound. Dan’s firing at times blotted out all else, but now she could hear heavy breathing almost next to her. Exposed to their attackers, she dared not raise her head for a look, and so kept going a little further.
After another three feet, she parted the grass, and much to her surprise, found herself face-to-face with a young Maasai. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw her white face. He put down the spear he had been holding with its sharp point not a foot from her nose. Seeing his look of relief, she couldn’t help notice just how young he was.
She recalled reading about the Maasai, and how, when a boy was fifteen, after ceremonies that included circumcision, he was sent to live in a communal circle of huts with males of the same age. They matured in that environment for a number of years, before returning home to marry. Years before, the original ordeal for a boy of that age had been to kill a lion, using only his spear. Those who were successful returned heroes; but that tradition had been outlawed for some time. The question, then, was why he was out there alone. Was it for such a hunt? He had been given a couple of cows to keep for their milk and blood. That remained an important diet item for those semi-nomadic people, and such animals were their standard of wealth. Since he depended on them for his food, losing the cows could be tragic, which could be the reason he had been trying to defend them when he was wounded.
She handed him her canteen, rewarded by a grateful but painful smile. As he gulped the water thirstily, she looked for a bullet wound. Pinned down in the grass as they were, it was difficult for her to see much. His long cloak, mostly red, was sticky with blood and caked with dirt.
“Danny,” she called, “they’ve shot a Maasai boy, apparently in trying to steal his cows. Our approach kept them from closing in on him. He’s bleeding and nearly in shock from blood loss. I’ll need your help to drag him to safety!”
Dan’s reply, in-between two more shots, was, “Hold on, Crowley ought to be in position soon. When he does start firing, we’ll have our opportunity.”
She lay there, eyeball-to-eyeball with the boy, for what seemed like an hour. All the while, he bravely smiled at her. She couldn’t raise her head enough to find where he was bleeding, or to see if pressure or a tourniquet would help.
From the other side of the rock, Dan called, “My ammo is low. Can you toss some over here?”
Diana replied, “I’ll try. But this bandolier weighs a ton. I’ll push it to the corner with my feet so you can reach it. Chet should be in position by now.”
Just then a shot hit the boulder over her head, sending a shower of rock fragments in all directions, the bullet singing as it ricocheted away. Whew, she thought, that was too close. Come on, Chet!
Dan had just retrieved Diana’s bandolier when the staccato sound of the BAR on full automatic was heard. In three bursts he emptied a whole 20-round clip, and in the brief quiet during his insertion of a new one, they could hear a frantic mixture of speech and screaming behind the rock pile. Another short burst brought silence. Standing up, the big Texan motioned them to advance.
“Danny,” she called, “Get Chet over here to help us with this boy. He’s more important than those other men, whoever they are.”
She got up, and for the first time found the bullet wound, just below his collarbone; firm pressure on it stemmed the slow flow of dark blood. Lucky, she thought, the bullet hadn’t hit the artery, or he’d be gone by now. She was also able to get a better look at his face.
“Hello,” she said, smiling, after trying a few halting words in Swahili. “Do you speak English?”
His lips formed some words, but they were hard to hear and mostly unintelligible. As she leaned closer, she could make out two words.
Standing up, she called out, “The boy indicates that our assailants are Mau Mau. What in the world are terrorists from Kenya doing here?”
The Pinkerton man joined them, carrying a British Lee-Enfield bolt-action army rifle along with his own weapon. “There were five of ’em, armed with these. They made the mistake of all huddlin’ together. I spose we should bury ’em ta keep the hyenas and vultures away.”
Opening the first-aid kit, she dusted antibiotic powder on the boy’s wound and covered it with Vaseline gauze, then followed with a bandage. Looking up, she said, “There’s no time for that, Chet. We’ve got to get him to medical attention speedily, or either infection or internal bleeding will kill him.”
Dan said, “What are we waiting for?”
Together, the two men gently lifted the softly moaning boy into the back of the scout car. As he put the vehicle in gear, Chet remarked, “This ain’t goin’ ta help the hyena problem at camp much.”
Dan agreed, pointing a finger at him. “They’ll be occupied here for only a couple of nights. But you’ll just have to post more guards after that, Crowley.”
Their arrival at camp caused a stir when the Maasai was brought in. Those men had often seemed so threatening. Diana convinced Max that emergency medical attention was essential, requiring that she fly the boy to Dar immediately. After the plane was gassed up and the boy was gently lifted into the rear seat and strapped in, she took off without delay. His lanky body was a poor fit in the seat, but it couldn’t be helped. Unlike some L-5’s, their Stinson had not been modified to accommodate a stretcher.
It was late afternoon, and Diana was worried. Since it would be dark by the time they arrived at Dar, she had to count on the runway being adequately lighted. She knew the route in daylight would be easy
over the now-familiar terrain, but she worried about finding her way after dark. She would use the radio at sunset to notify them of the need for lights and an ambulance. After seeing her off, the two security men sat down outside, cleaning their weapons. Then Chet expressed his concern for Diana's safety.
Dan, who felt the same way, said, “You know, Crowley, she’s an excellent pilot. I’ve flown with her. I wouldn’t worry about her in that plane.”
Chet responded after scanning the sky, “It’s not her flyin’ ah’m thinkin’ about. It’s that crocodile in the spaceship. Miss Howard didn’t get any practice firin’ her rifle today. She’s probably a good shot, but ah worry about a missed shot ricochetin’ off those bulkheads. They can be more dangerous than a clean slug, when distorted by impact.”
Dan reflected on that. “Yeah, I know. I was a tanker in the war. I’ve seen fragments bounce around inside a Sherman, tearing huge holes when they finally hit a man.”
The Texan eyed Dan closely, saying, “Ah’ve noticed that ya hanker fer her, so listen, here’s mah idea. While she’s away in the plane, let’s us two take care of that varmint.”
Dan perked up at that, inquiring, “What’s your plan? Until they enlarge those ports, we can’t go in there after it ourselves, you know.”
“Yer really a city boy, ain’t ya, Stuart?” Crowley remarked. “We’ll just lure it ta come out ta us. When ah was a young buck, we’d hunt ’gators in the bayous on the Gulf Coast. They’d hole up in caves in the banks, but could be enticed out with bait.”
Dan became excited, shouting, “Let’s get on it! We’ll need a big chunk of beef or pork, won’t we? We’ll just lie in wait, and when it sticks its head out, no more croc.”
“Not so fast, Stuart,” Chet said, “We’ll also have ta throw in some chum, like in fishin’, ta get it down ta the openin’ first, and then one of us will have ta be nearby, and wide-awake when it comes out after the meat. Y’know, it could leave the ship on the other side somewhere, and come around ta our side.”
Dan enthused, “We’ll nail it then, for sure.”
“Hold yer horses, young fella,” the Pinkerton again cautioned, “Ah said ya have ta stay wide-awake. Ah saw ya after lunch today. Even after a cup of java, ya seemed ta be driftin’ off ta sleep. Those monsters can move fast when they’re after prey, and if yer dozin’, the bait won’t be beef or pork, it’ll be ol’ Dan Stuart.”
“Then just give me my rifle and a pot of strong coffee,” Dan replied, “and my stakeout post will be on top of the ship, well out of reach of those jaws.”
* * *
When Diana radioed the control tower at the airfield, they turned on the lights to make the landing easy for her and the wounded Maasai slumped in the passenger seat. The boy, under her close supervision, was carefully lifted out and taken to the waiting ambulance. The medics were somewhat upset that their charge was a native, but grudgingly followed her instructions to drive him to the Royal Victoria Hospital in the center of town. On arrival, there was the same reaction. It seems that natives, or Kaffirs, as the whites and Arabs called them, were to be treated at the hospital on the outskirts of town that was set aside for them.
Diana looked at the boy, now barely conscious, his pulse thready, his skin cool and a sickly grayish-yellow. “I’m afraid,” she said to the admitting clerk, “that he won’t last long enough to get there. My organization will guarantee the cost of his care if it comes to that.”
The surgeon on call had the beard and turban of a Sikh; he took one look at the Maasai and his wound, and called to the nurse, “Type and cross-match him for three pints of whole blood. Start a pint of plasma immediately, and notify the surgery suite that we’re on our way. Luckily, that pressure dressing seems to have staunched the flow of blood from the wound and probably sealed his chest cavity from sucking air, or he’d never have survived all this.”
“But, sir,” the nurse protested, “he should be at the native facility, you know that!”
Hearing that, rage transformed the Sikh’s face. “Nurse, I command you to do what I say. This human life depends on immediate treatment, not a seven-mile trip to another hospital. If you won’t help, stand aside, and I’ll do your work for you, with the help of this lady!”
Diana stepped forward then, volunteering, “Just tell me what to do, I’m sure I can start an I.V.”
Hearing that, the nurse said, “Of course, Mr. Sethi, just as you say.” Quickly going to the cabinet behind her for the supplies needed, she became a model of efficiency, drawing blood from the boy’s slim arm and starting the plasma intravenously. She then went to the phone as instructed. “Operating suite? This is Emergency. We have a serious gunshot wound for you. It’s in the right subclavicular region. He’s lost a good deal of blood, but we should have him out of shock by the time you can set up for Mr. Sethi. It will be an exploration, debridement and repair.”
As the doors to surgery closed behind the gurney carrying the wounded patient, Diana sat down to wait. She was dog-tired, but she knew her job wouldn’t be finished until she could be sure the boy’s aftercare would be paid for. The late hour kept her from calling the only source she knew locally for help, the Ministry of Mines and Oil Exploration. She dreaded having to contact that sinister character, whatever his name was. As she fell into a fitful sleep there in the chair, she resolved to call him in the morning.
A couple of hours later, she was awakened by the nurse gently shaking her. Sleepily, she asked, “How did it go with the Maasai boy?”
The nurse smiled at her, replying, “He’ll be fine, thanks to your flying him here, and Mr. Sethi’s skill. He was able to repair the subclavian vein, and patch the wall of the artery next to it, bulging as it was like a balloon ready to burst. He may have some weakness in his arm, as there was some contusion of the brachial plexus of nerves.”
In her sleep-deprived condition, and after having been in the U.S. for a couple of years, Diana asked herself, Mister Sethi? Then she recalled that surgeons proudly answered to that title in the British Empire, instead of to “Doctor.”
“Miss,” the nurse went on, “there still is the problem of the cost for the care received, you know.”
Now fully awake, Diana said, “You will recall that I gave you my guarantee when we first came in. Since then, I’m reminded by the title ‘Mister,’ that the National Health Scheme will handle it all. British, you know.” The nurse looked at her for a moment, and then said, “I wouldn’t know about that, but the Administration Office is open now, and I’m sure they would be happy to discuss it with you.”
After freshening up, Diana visited the Finance Secretary. It appeared that while the National Health Scheme would ultimately cover him, the fact that he had not been treated at the designated facility had created a mountain of red tape.
“In time, I’m sure,” the Secretary reassured her, “they will pay. But that could be months from now, and our budget is such that immediate payment is required. Since you pledged that you would be responsible, I’m afraid we must hold you to that, sorry.”
“Well, I haven’t more than a few pounds on me,” Diana observed, “but perhaps I could get an advance from the Ministry of Mines. They have collected a substantial bond from our organization, and perhaps some of that can be utilized.”
“That office is just down the street. I’ll ring them up for you,” the woman across the desk volunteered.
After a short interval, a voice announced, “Office of the Ministry.” The Secretary explained the situation, and then turned to Diana, saying, “The Minister is away, but his assistant is coming to the telephone.”
“Hello, First Assistant Minister Rodney Kindred here.” It was a friendly voice, and sounded like Cambridgeshire, bringing a sigh of relief from Diana.
She began by introducing herself, and then informed him of the problem with the Maasai boy. “You’re just down the street, I understand,” she continued. “I think you should see him. He appears to have been on a lion hunt, all by himself, exc
ept for two cows, and armed with just a spear and a knife. His weapons are special, the most artistically decorated I’ve seen. I know our expedition’s involvement is the only reason Mines and Oil might be interested in a gunshot wound, but the men who shot him and then ambushed us may have been part of a group that poses a threat to our expedition.”
He immediately replied, “I’ll be right there, it won’t take five minutes.” Then he hung up.
Kindred, a tall, sunburned man, arrived just after Diana had asked about visiting hours. He nodded to her, bowing slightly as he offered his hand. Crisply, he said, “Rodney Kindred, at your service. I’d like to see your interesting Maasai straightaway, if you don’t mind.”
As they proceeded down the hall, Diana offered, “I’m indeed glad you came. We seem to have rather a problem, not only with the hospital costs but also with the mystery about the Maasai, and the attack. The culprits, I’m told, were Kikuyu, and armed with British Army Enfields, not what native hunters use out on the plain.”
He stopped, frowning at that information, and then exclaimed, “By Jove!” Then he looked down at her warmly, remarking, “You sound very Cambridge. I’m from East Anglia to the west. I’m happy to be in a position to help any Americans such as those of your organization. During the war, I had the pleasure of working with Yank flyers who came over to help in the fight. I’ll never forget them, for their kindnesses and sacrifice. Their Airbase at Framlingham took over most of my family’s farm, but their efforts helped spell the difference against the Nazis. When the war was over and they left, it didn’t seem the same. So I came here, originally to continue farming, but when I got to know the natives and their way of life, I decided they needed enlightened governance more than I needed a farm. So here I am.”
As they reached the surgical ward, she said, “That’s an interesting story. I spent some time at Framlingham myself during the war.” Then she added, “I hope the Maasai boy can tell us something. Are you familiar with their tongue? We may have to get an interpreter otherwise.”
The Martian Pendant Page 13
