08 Safari Adventure

by Willard Price

Hal bent down, took hold of the two iron jaws and exerted all his strength to pull them apart. They did not budge.

  ‘The spring is too strong,’ he said.

  ‘Right. It has to be strong to hold a lion or elephant. It can’t be opened without a tool.’

  Crosby saw Hal looking at the ten-foot chain that connected the trap with an iron spike driven into the ground.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking —’ he said, ‘that the ranger could have pulled up that spike; then he could hobble to his car with the trap still on his leg. Try to pull up the spike.’

  Hal laid hold of the spike. He pulled until he was blue in the face. The spike did .not move. It was driven into the base of a termite hill and the termites came out to see what was going on.

  ‘You may as well give up,’ Crosby said. ‘That was driven in with a sledge-hammer. About three feet deep into the hill. As you know, these termite hills are almost as hard as cement. Even an elephant couldn’t pull that spike loose. Do you have a crowbar in your supply van? That would open the trap.’

  Hal brought the heavy iron bar. He inserted it between the jaws, pried them open, and Crosby drew out the bleeding foot. Roger went for antiseptic and bandaging. Hal doctored the wounded ankle of the man who would gladly have killed him.

  Chapter 8

  Blackbeard disappears

  He started out with great enthusiasm, following the boot-prints. He had not gone a dozen paces before he stopped, puzzled. There were no more boot-prints. It was as if the wearer of the boots had suddenly gone up in smoke. Could he have climbed into a tree?

  Joro looked up. There was no branch low enough to be reached.

  ‘Aren’t we forgetting something?’ Roger said, looking back at the thorn fence. ‘How about Whiskers?’

  In the general excitement Blackbeard had been forgotten.

  Hal leaped to his feet. ‘Joro, Mali, come with me. Bring your dog. Toto, take over while we’re gone.’

  They dashed through the gap and looked around. Nobody.

  He set off at a run for the gap where Blackbeard had last been seen. The others followed.

  They dashed through the gap and looked around. Nobody;

  ‘Look in every hut.’ The huts were all empty.

  Joro did not join in the search. When the others came back they found him squatting in the gap, studying the ground. He was Hal’s best tracker.

  The ground was covered with footprints, each ending in five dents made by the five toes, for the poachers went barefoot. There was one exception - a line of prints without toes.

  ‘Made by boots.’ Joro said. ‘The boss - he wore boots. We catch him.’

  ‘He was smart,’ Joro said. ‘Took off his boots - so we no can track him.’

  The ground was still covered with prints, but they all had toes. Who could tell which were the tracks of Blackbeard?

  ‘The dog,’ Roger suggested. Try the dog.’

  Mali took his dog Zulu back to the gap. He bent the animal’s head down so that his nose almost touched the boot-prints. Zulu sniffed. He followed the boot-prints to the point where they disappeared. The dog sniffed about aimlessly, making little whining noises.

  Crosby shook his head. ‘Your dog may be clever,’ he said, ‘but not that clever. Boots and bare feet don’t smell alike.’

  ‘You watch,’ Mali said.

  The dog went back and smelled the boot-prints - then the other tracks. Hal hoped against hope. It would all depend upon whether the boots were new or old. If they were new they would not have the smell of a man. But if they had been worn a long time in this hot climate they would have absorbed some of the perspiration and body-odour of the wearer. It would be faint, but a hunting dog’s keen sense of smell might pick it up.

  Zulu barked. He had found something. He went back again to smell the boot-print. Then with an excited yelp he started off on a trail of bare feet.

  ‘He’s got it,’ cried Hal.

  But the man who had made those tracks was not stupid. He had another trick to baffle his pursuers. A dead buffalo lay in a pool of its own blood. Blackbeard had walked straight through the blood. That should be enough to kill all man-scent. Where he had come out, who could say? - for the ground was covered with bloody footprints.

  Crosby again shook his head, but Mali and the boys still had faith in Zulu’s sharp nose.

  Zulu took more time than before to make his selection. He finally picked out a trail but did not seem too sure about it

  Now the human tracker helped him out. Joro carefully studied and measured Blackbeard’s prints leading into the blood and then the outgoing prints chosen by Zulu.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Dog, he got him. Foot, same wide, same long. Toes tight, boot.’

  ‘What does he mean by that?’ the warden asked.

  ‘I think he means,’ said Hal, ‘that the toes are close together. That’s a sign that the man generally wore boots. The boot squeezes the toes together. If a man always goes barefoot, his toes spread apart.’

  Again they took up the trail. But again Blackbeard had a trick up his sleeve. The tracks led to the shore of the Tsavo River and entered the water.

  Zulu howled his disappointment. He sniffed his^ way up along the bank, and then downstream, with no effect. Joro too was defeated. The hard river-bottom showed no prints. It was impossible to tell where the man had come out. He might have swum across the river, he might have waded upstream or downstream, and he would be careful to step out of the water into brush where he would leave no footprints.

  ‘He’s long gone by this time,’ Hal said. ‘Chances are, he went to where he had hidden his car and now he’s well out of the park.’

  Hal felt that his first attempt to help the warden had ended in failure. Crosby tried to cheer him up.

  ‘Never mind. You caught the poachers. That’s a good day’s work.’

  ‘But we let the boss slip through our fingers,’ Hal said gloomily. ‘He’ll just start over again somewhere else with a new gang.’

  Chapter 9

  The tiger-horse

  Forty-seven poachers, sound asleep, were packed like sardines into the elephant cage.

  They would stay asleep for about four hours - more than enough time to cover the hundred and thirty miles to Mombasa. They would wake up in the Mombasa jail.

  Crosby wrote a note to the jail warden:

  ‘Herewith, forty-seven arrested for poaching. Hold for trial.’

  He gave the note to the driver. The Power-wagon, with its unconscious freight, took off.

  The other cars remained, for there was still a job to be done - a painful job. The hundred or more animals caught in the mile-long trap-line and in the separate traps in the grass must be set free.

  Black clouds of vultures flew up as the men approached the animals. Hyenas and jackals, that had been sinking their sharp teeth into creatures still alive, skulked away. They went just out of reach and stood waiting for a chance to rush in again to torture the screaming beasts.

  The animals still able to fight struggled fiercely to escape from the wire nooses that had pulled tight on their necks. Every jerk made the wire sink more deeply into the throat. It cut like a knife into the flesh. Blood streamed down the animals’ heaving flanks.

  Roger and the warden tried to rescue a zebra from the snare that was choking it to death. It was dangerous to come near the animal because it was so mad with fear and pain that it lived up to its nickname of ‘tiger-horse’.

  A zebra is usually harmless. Although striped like a tiger, he is more of a horse than a tiger. But this zebra was more tiger than horse. His pain had turned him into a killer. He was ready to murder anything that came near. His strong teeth snapped together like a trap when the dog Zulu came too close. He could and did kick out with all four feet.

  An iron-hard hoof caught the warden in the stomach and sat him down on the ground with a jolt. With the wind knocked out of him, he was too weak to move and stayed where he was while hooves flew round him. If one of them
struck him in the face he might be killed. Roger took hold of him by the. shoulders of his bush jacket and managed to pull him back out of the way.

  Shakily, the warden got up. An experienced animal man, he was ashamed that he had almost been laid low by a striped horse. ‘First time I’ve ever been saved by a boy,’ he grinned. Roger didn’t tell him that it was the second time. The warden already owed his life to the boy who had pulled his helpless body off the control of the plunging aeroplane. The warden pulled a wire-cutter from his hip pocket. ‘We always carry these things when we go on rescue missions,’ he said.

  ‘But how can you get close enough to use them?’ ‘It’s not easy,’ Crosby admitted. He staggered a little. He was still dizzy. It wasn’t just the kick of the tiger-horse. He still felt the effects of his almost fatal experience of the day before. Perhaps there was still some Aco in his veins.

  Roger knew he must help. But he had no experience with tiger-horses. He had tamed bucking broncos on his father’s farm. He could leap on to a horse’s back without benefit of saddle or stirrups. Then why be afraid now -wasn’t this just a horse? Not even as high as a horse. It ought to be easy. He saw the dizzy warden pass his hand over his forehead. ‘Let me have the cutters,’ Roger said. ‘No, no,’ the warden replied. ‘I’ll take care of this.’ ‘Let’s both do it. You get in front of him and attract his attention. I’ll jump on his back and cut the noose.’

  Crosby shook his head. ‘Too risky.’

  ‘For you perhaps,’ said Roger. ‘Not for me. I’ll be on top - where he can’t get me with either his feet or his teeth. You’re the one who will have to look out.’

  Crosby, half convinced, gave Roger the cutters. He went in front of the enraged beast, just out of reach of the huge yellow teeth that could snap off an arm and the sharp-edged forefeet that could split a man’s skull right down to the Adam’s apple. The frantic zebra lunged at him but was held back by the cruel noose.

  Roger made a flying leap and landed neatly on the zebra’s back. He leaned forward and snipped the noose. As it fell from the bleeding neck the animal plunged straight forward with a squeal of fury. The warden stepped out of the way. The zebra did not pursue him -he suddenly realized there was something on his back, something he had to get rid of.

  He reared on his hind legs and tossed Roger upside down into the thorn barricade. The thorns went straight through the heavy bush jacket and safari trousers and tattooed the boy’s skin. He struggled out to see the tiger-horse speeding away like a striped sail in a strong wind.

  ‘Do you notice anything wrong with that zebra?’ said the warden.

  Roger studied the retreating figure. ‘Well, there seems to be something missing. I know - he has no tail.’

  That’s what made him so savage. Agony at both ends-neck cut, tail chopped off. That was all the poachers wanted - the tail. They lopped it off with a bush knife and left the animal there to suffer until he died. That tail is now a fly-whisk. Think of killing such a fine animal just so that some fool of a tourist can swat a fly. In the tourist shops in Nairobi you have probably seen trays full of fly-whisks made from the tails of zebras and gnus and other animals, and priced at a few shillings each -and you’ve seen tourists buying them because they thought they would make amusing presents to take home to Boston or London or Paris. Many of those tourists are kind and gentle people, but they just don’t think. If they could see the agony these beasts must suffer so that they can swat a fly, they wouldn’t buy that fly-whisk.’

  In the next gap were two snares, one set high to catch a large animal, one low to trap anything small.

  In the lower one was a beautiful brown-eyed serval cat. In the upper snare struggled one of the handsomest creatures of Africa - the magnificent giraffe. Its throat was deeply cut by the wire noose. Plainly, it had not long to live.

  Seven lions sat round it, licking their chops, waiting.

  ‘I wish we could scare them away,’ Roger said.

  ‘That would hardly be fair,’ said the warden. ‘They have a right to their dinner. Nature made them meat eaters - like you and me. They are no more cruel than you and I are when we eat a beefsteak.’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Roger. ‘It was the poachers who were cruel.’

  Roger and the warden stood at a respectful distance, for it is not quite safe to interfere with seven hungry lions.

  It has been said that a giraffe has no voice. That is not quite true - a low moaning sound came from the throat of the tortured animal. If it had been a buffalo or a rhino or an elephant there would have been a bellowing or grunting or squealing loud enough to be heard a mile away. But the near silence of the tallest animal on earth and one of the most graceful was no sign that he did not feel pain. His feelings were revealed in the jerky twisting and wrenching of the body. Death would be a blessed relief. ‘How long will he live?’ Roger asked. ‘Not long. An hour perhaps.’

  ‘It’s going to be a mighty bad hour for him. Can’t we do something?’ ‘It’s too late to save him.’

  Roger put his hand in his pocket. ‘I have one Sleep left. How about putting him out of his misery?’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ said the warden. ‘And it might work if you didn’t have seven lions between you and the giraffe. Just how are you going to get round them?”I don’t need to. I can throw the dart from here.’ ‘The hide is too tough. The dart wouldn’t go in. You would have to jab it in by hand.’

  Roger’s eye followed the giraffe’s neck up past the branch of an acacia tree.

  ‘Why didn’t I notice that before?’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the way to do it.’

  Before the warden could reply Roger was halfway to the trunk of the tree. To get there he must pass within ten feet of the lions. Most of them were much too interested in the giraffe to pay any attention to him. But one, a huge male, evidently the leader of the pride, wheeled about to face him, laid back his ears, bared his teeth, crouched as if to spring, and let out a blast of thunder that tied Roger’s nerves up in knots.

  But he did not hesitate. He reached the tree and scrambled up. He could imagine the lion’s claws sinking into his tingling back. Or the beast would catch one of his feet in its bone-crushing jaws.

  He reached the lowest branch and looked down. The lion was standing on his hind feet with his front paws on the tree-trunk, and the look on the huge face was anything but pleasant.

  Roger inched his way out on to the branch until he was close to the giraffe’s head and neck. The great brown eyes with their remarkably long lashes looked at him appealingly.

  He took the Sleep from his pocket and, with all his force, plunged the needle into the quivering neck.

  He backed away from the thrashing head. He noticed a wire running down from the branch to the noose that held the little serval. Gently, he hauled the cat up out of the reach of the lions and planted its feet on the branch. He took out his cutters and snipped the noose.

  Crosby watched anxiously. The excited cat might turn on the boy and scratch him badly. But the serval’s only idea was escape. It ran along the branch to the trunk, then up into the safe treetop.

  Roger was happy to see that the lion had gone back with the others, waiting for dinner. He slid down the trunk and sprinted to join the warden.

  ‘That was a good job,’ Crosby said. They watched as the drug took effect. The great eyes closed, the twisting and squirming stopped. The last hour of the great animal would be without pain.

  Roger noticed that in this case too the tail was gone.

  ‘To make a fly-whisk?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Some lady will wear the murder of that giraffe around her neck. They make necklaces out of giraffe tails.’

  ‘And is that all the poachers wanted?’

  “That, and just one other thing. Look at the backs of the hind legs. The sinews have been torn out.’

  ‘What can they do with them?’

  ‘Weave them to make a bowstring.’

  So for a necklace and a bowstring this magnific
ent animal must die. It was just too pitiful.

  In the next snare hung the body of one of Africa’s loveliest creatures, the impala. Every visitor to Africa falls in love with the impala. It is a gazelle, the gayest of all the gazelles, so full of the joy of living that it cannot stay on the ground. It is a flier that does not need wings. It happily soars over bushes and small trees, touches the ground, then soars, and soars again. The vision of a hundred of these sleek, streamlined animals all in the air at the same time is a sight never to be forgotten.

  But this impala would never sail again. The lovely creature was no longer lovely. A deadly wound had been cut in the neck by the wire snare. Parts of the body had been eaten away and maggots an inch long squirmed through the rotting flesh.

  Roger could not bear to look at it. Heavy-hearted, he went on down the wall of death.

  But the next animal was not dead - it was a Thomson’s gazelle, usually called a Tommy. The Tommy is a friend of man. He never seems to learn that it is not safe to trust man.

  Beside the trapped animal was a smaller animal that had not been trapped. It was a baby Tommy that had refused to leave its mother. The mother was kicking out savagely at-some vultures that were tormenting the youngster. To-the last she was thinking, not of herself, but of her fawn. The vultures flew away as Roger and Crosby approached. Crosby stooped beside the fawn.

  ‘Too late,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

  Roger snipped the wire snare and the Tommy was free. But she did not run away. With her delicate little nose she nudged her baby to make him stand up, but she got no response. She herself tottered as if she might fall at any moment.

  ‘Do you think we can patch her up?’ said Roger.

  ‘We’ll take her to the hospital,’ the warden said.

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen our animal hospital? We have a good many patients already but there may be room for a few more.’

  Roger took the Tommy up in his arms. The slender little body weighed only some thirty pounds. Her blood soaked his bush jacket.