Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  Logan, eyes brimming with anger, shrugged.

  Will nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Good. Now get dressed, Will, and let’s be off.’

  Logan couldn’t resist. ‘Yes. Best you cover that puny little excuse for a body.’

  ‘Better lean than looking six months gone with child,’ Will shot back.

  The older man’s hands dropped instinctively to his paunch. Despite the attack on his vanity he replied mildly, ‘My dear man, much time and money has been lavished on this bay window. Do try to show a little respect.’

  Will failed to notice that the cutting comment had hit home. Shaking his head he moved off to retrieve the rest of his now dry clothing.

  Dallas swung into the saddle and waited. Logan did the same, muttering something about the lower classes always looking half starved.

  Realising that it was only an attempt to salvage wounded pride, Dallas ignored the remark. He had already come to the conclusion that life on the road would be far from plain sailing. Logan and Will seemed to dislike each other on principle. Getting the best from both was going to be difficult, especially as his dependence on them would only undermine his authority. He could not be seen to take sides. Each could be sensitive. The two of them were down on their luck and had been forced to hitch up with an inexperienced younger man. It was something they resented. Both displayed a degree of vanity in the matter of their professional talents. Dallas fervently hoped that when the time came for Logan and Will to prove their individual worth, each would be good enough at what they did to elicit some respect from the other. That way, with luck, they might cease their pointless squabbling and get on with the job.

  They found their wagons. Two brand-new, one a little work-scarred though structurally sound. It had been well repaired and the canvas was good. Dallas paid two hundred and seventy-five pounds for them, but only after Logan and Will had beaten the price down by fifty.

  ‘Does Old Joe still sell salted horses?’ Will asked the German wagon-builder.

  ‘Ja. I tink.’

  Dallas told him they’d be back later to pick up their purchases.

  ‘He tinks,’ Logan mimicked as the three men rode away.

  ‘Shut up!’ Will snarled.

  Surprisingly, Logan did.

  Old Joe, when they located him, was only too happy to sell them horses until he heard they would be pulling the wagons back to Durban. ‘They’re broken but not trained for that.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Will assured him.

  Old Joe scratched himself thoroughly, stomach, head and crotch. ‘They’ll spook. Don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  ‘That’s all we need.’ Logan looked disgusted.

  ‘Believe me, it’ll be fine,’ Will repeated.

  They had no option. ‘How much?’ Dallas asked.

  Calculating eyes turned from one face to another, as Joe’s expression went from doubt, through cunning to good old-fashioned greed. He named his price.

  ‘Too much,’ Will and Logan responded together. Will added, ‘They might be salted but it’s horses we’re buying, not the bloody crown jewels.’

  Dallas remained silent while the other three haggled. Against the combined skill of Will and Logan, Old Joe didn’t really stand a chance, his initial confidence rapidly becoming a scowl of defeat.

  ‘Eighty pounds and not a penny less. It’s the best I can do.’ They agreed, but the old man hadn’t finished. ‘Extra for halters.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Will said. ‘We’ll drive them to the wagons. It’ll be easy.’ Having beaten the price down by forty-five pounds there was no way he was prepared to let it go up again. Dallas saw his air of confidence and nodded acceptance.

  Logan wasn’t so sure, a fact obvious from his expression.

  Of the nine horses they’d just purchased, two stood watching the men, one was drinking and the rest showed little interest in anything. They seemed docile enough. Dallas agreed with Will.

  It was no more than a mile, along a road flanked by very European-looking dwellings. The horses, no doubt relieved by being released from the monotony of their small enclosure, celebrated in style. They made enemies of every establishment en route. Dallas retained a memory of that afternoon for the rest of his life. The animals ran amok and displayed total disregard for the property of others. Carefully cultivated flora disappeared into eager mouths, hooves trampled crops and gardens alike. Not even window boxes escaped attention. A broom-wielding German frau in hot pursuit of a piece of female undergarment erroneously filched by a horse as a snack, brought an entire line of washing to the ground. The lady was determined to retrieve her corset, the horse just as anxious that she came nowhere near it. Two such diversely opposing, though equally urgent, requirements ensured disaster and the clean clothes were unfortunate victims. Dallas, with his sketchy though adequate knowledge of her language, had no idea German women were equipped with such an expansive vocabulary.

  Dogs, barking hysterically, joined in the fun. Chickens ran squawking in all directions seconds before being trampled. Children shrieked, either from fright or excitement – Dallas didn’t know which. Nor did he care. The end result was identical. Panic.

  Total disaster was averted by the wagon-builder, who had heard the approaching pandemonium and blocked the way, forcing all nine horses into his fenced field where the wagons stood. Sweating, swearing and yelling, Dallas, Logan and Will followed close behind and swung the gate closed.

  Once contained, the animals did a nervous circumnavigation, found no way out, and settled down to graze.

  ‘I tink you haf to leave them tonight. Tomorrow they calmer. Den they like little kinders.’

  Puce-faced with outrage and exertion, the broom-wielding frau waddled into sight. ‘Mine, mine,’ she screeched, pointing to her corset, which was still carried by one of the horses. As they watched, it shook its head vigorously and the garment flew, with unerring accuracy, to land on a fresh pile of dollops deposited by another. ‘Nein, nein,’ the woman yelled.

  Dallas hastily retrieved the chewed and now yellow-stained undergarment and self-consciously returned it to its rightful owner.

  Perhaps believing she was not understood, the woman delivered a stream of obscenities in her native language, describing in detail what she would do to his manhood if she could get her hands on a knife.

  Dallas managed to keep a straight face.

  They took the wagon-builder’s advice and camped in the field. The man’s wife brought them home-baked bread and a steaming pot of impala stew. Conversation around the fire was limited. Logan lay on his back gazing up at the night sky and smoking a cigar. Will stared into the fire.

  It was Dallas who broke the silence with a question to which he was horribly certain of the answer. ‘Do you two know the first thing about horses?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Logan cleared his throat.

  Will kept his gaze on the flickering flames.

  ‘Do you?’ Dallas persisted.

  When they finally condescended to tell the truth, Dallas found he was not in the least surprised. His two associates knew how to ride, they could size up horseflesh and bark out orders. However, the actual working of animals was taken care of by their African employees. Knowing what should be done and actually doing it themselves were two totally different things.

  ‘Somehow,’ Dallas gritted, as the reality of their situation became evident, ‘we must get this lot back to Durban tomorrow. It would seem that, of the three of us, I am actually the most experienced. Therefore, I’ll take the lead.’ In fact, Dallas didn’t have much more practice than the other two but he certainly wasn’t about to admit it. He had, at least, driven a pony cart in Scotland.

  ‘I have experienced Zulu boys waiting in Durban,’ Will offered helpfully.

  ‘So do I,’ Logan volunteered. ‘They’ll need to come with us for the oxen.’

  ‘Damned right they will.’ Dallas prodded moodily at the fire. ‘A pity neither of you thought to bring them with us today. An
d I’ll need staff myself. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Behind Cato’s store. You’ll find any number looking for work.’

  ‘If the cattle are anything like the horses,’ Dallas said firmly, ‘we’ll need all the help we can get.’

  In the morning, and not without assistance from the wagon-builder’s Africans, they managed to hitch three horses to each wagon. Fortunately, most of their journey would be downhill. The animals were nervous and jumpy but, once rolling, with Will, Logan and Dallas riding in front and leading a wagon each, they managed to make the trip with only a few minor problems.

  The journey, however, was slow and it was after five before they arrived back in town. By the time they’d unhitched the wagons and made arrangements to overnight the horses, it was too late to do anything more. Before returning to Mrs Watson’s, Dallas said he’d meet Will and Logan outside Cato’s at eight the next morning.

  Under normal circumstances, it had not been a big day. A bash over the head with a flimsy chair and the acquisition of two partners the previous afternoon, Dallas could have taken in his stride. So, too, the collection and return of horses and wagons from New Germany to Durban today, through very unfamiliar territory with two strangers – one of whom held practical reality in contempt; the other, seemingly happy to sit back and criticise. Added to everything else, however, by the time he reached Ann Watson’s, Dallas was pleased the day was over. His head ached, as did his jaw. For that matter, so did the rest of him. As Will had said, riding in Africa was rather more than ‘Tally-ho! There goes the fox!’ Trying to absorb all manner of new information, whether it came from the mouths of his partners or was provided by sudden, and often very unwelcome, experience, had taken its toll. Dallas was more than ready to call it a day.

  His landlady made a point of only offering cold food from the previous night’s dinner but appeared to be genuinely sad to learn that her lodger intended leaving. A week’s rent in lieu seemed to cheer up the good woman, who by the time Dallas bid farewell the next morning had reiterated her offer to hold any mail that might come for him. She also agreed to store his sea chest, valise, and any items of clothing or personal effects he wanted to leave behind. His belongings being reduced to the bare minimum seemed to increase Dallas’s sense that his new life was about to begin.

  It was already hot when, at six-thirty, he set off into town. That morning, Dallas experienced a heady mixture of anxiety and excitement. Ahead lay God knows what. Although ready to face the challenges, he could not help but wonder what they might be.

  SEVEN

  If Dallas thought he had a problem with Will and Logan not getting along, it was nothing compared to what he was about to see in town. Nobody had prepared him for the stark and uncompromising ferocity of tribal hatred. The first inkling of anything being amiss came as he rode up to Cato’s store. Logan was already there, standing off to one side with three Africans. Dallas nodded in greeting but his attention was taken by a roughly dressed and noisy group of mainly white men intent on something taking place in a large clearing next to the store. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Bit of a fight.’

  At that moment, Dallas spotted Will, with a fist full of money, scuttling through the throng. ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘What’s it look like?’ Logan was clearly disgusted.

  Dallas handed him the reins. ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The crowd parted briefly and Dallas saw two Africans, one wielding a short whip, the other armed with a heavy stick, warily circling each other. Both men had skinning knives in their other hand.

  Logan indicated the action with a jerk of his head. ‘Fellow with the sjambok is Will’s driver. He’s a Zulu. The other is my skinner. A Sotho. Seems like we’ve got a slight problem. They hate each other.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ Dallas winced as the whip whistled past the skinner’s face. The crowd roared in approval.

  ‘They don’t need one. Tribal differences are usually enough to spark a fight. In this case it’s not just that. Will’s driver claims that my man got his sister pregnant.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Christ! How the hell would I know? The bloody man dips his wick as often as he takes breath. He probably gets lots of them pregnant. Zulus call any girl from the same ancestor their sister. If you ask me –’

  ‘No, you listen. We’ve got to stop them before they kill each other.’

  Logan seemed to share none of his concern. ‘Oh, one will kill the other, no doubt about that. The money’s on my chap. Nice enough fellow, but as well as a propensity for the opposite sex he’s a bit hot-headed. He’s also devilishly accurate with that knife. Definitely not a good idea to get involved at this stage. Their blood is up and they’ll fight to the death.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Dallas snapped. ‘We end up with one man dead and the other charged with his murder. Why don’t you do something?’ He waved his arm towards a laughing, though tense, group of Africans who held back but were observing the action intently. ‘Why don’t they? They’re Zulus, most of them. Why don’t they step in and prevent their man from injury?’

  Logan gave a bark of amusement. ‘How? None of us is that stupid. Look, old chap, you’ll just have to learn, you never, ever interfere in their arguments. Most of the time these boys simply pick up where they left off yesterday, the day before, last month – Christ, last year, who knows. One second everything is fine and dandy, the next they’re ready to kill each other. It’s too late by then. Try and stop it now and they’ll more than likely turn on you. To the whites it’s nothing more than entertainment, but to the Kaffirs it’s a matter of honour. Will’s driver is fighting for his entire clan. My man is equally committed to showing contempt on behalf of the Sothos.’

  Dallas didn’t want to hear the reasons. He was concerned with the delays such a depth of feeling and any subsequent confrontation might cause to the expedition’s departure. Even more worrying was that one, or both, would be killed.

  ‘We’ll lose two good men.’

  ‘One,’ Logan contradicted. ‘The other, unless his chief decides to take the matter further, will not be punished. Native law, old chap. A straight crime of grievance. It might cost the winner a beast of some kind but that is about all.’

  Dallas pulled his rifle from its saddle scabbard. ‘We’ll see about this.’

  ‘Make sure it’s loaded, dear boy,’ Logan advised mildly. ‘Go in there, and chances are you’ll have to use that fancy popgun.’

  ‘Are you with me or not?’

  Logan sighed and sent an African to fetch his own firearm.

  They pushed their way through the rowdy crush. ‘Stop!’ Dallas shouted.

  The two combatants were so intent on each other they gave no indication of having heard. Dallas now had a perfect view of the impending confrontation. Will’s driver was slowly circling the Sotho, swinging the hippo leather sjambok, then striking out with deadly accuracy, forcing the other to keep his distance. Logan’s skinner was contemptuously ignoring the near misses, seeming to know that his adversary was not yet ready to deliver a committed attack. The knife in his right hand looked loosely held. His left arm was extended, the stick constantly moving, fingers splayed for control as he weaved it in the air to divert attention and confuse concentration. Eyes locked, the two Africans moved around each other like wary leopards, each waiting for an opportunity or a wavering of confidence.

  A hush fell as spectators sensed that the moment was near. Dallas could hear his heart beating. The early-morning drama seemed almost unreal, as though he would wake and find it had been a dream. Yet he knew it wasn’t. Having interfered, he now had to follow through. Although Africans seemed to live by a code unknown to Dallas, one thing was perfectly clear. To win their respect his action would have to be quick and decisive. Anything less and the authority he needed to maintain would be doomed.

  Dallas didn’t doubt his ski
ll as a better than average shot. On the grouse moor he had once equalled Lord Ripon’s record of seven birds dead in the air at one time. Conscious thought left him as instinct took over.

  How he sensed that the moment had come, that any more delay could prove fatal, he’d never be able to say. Perhaps a warning communicated from the contestants’ hate-glazed eyes. It might have been a subtle straining of already taut muscle or a change of stance. Both men stood firm and rock steady. The whip arm of Will’s driver may have come back a little further, or the knife point lifted slightly. Whatever it was, Dallas knew he had to act now.

  The driver took a stamping step forward and swung. As the sjambok scythed towards Logan’s man, the skinner’s right arm pulled up and back. Simultaneously, the twirling, darting stick became a blur of motion. In that instant, before the knife was snapped towards its intended victim, Dallas worked the lever action of his rifle, shouldered and fired in one fluid and continuous movement. Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and fired again, this time at the Zulu.

  Later, Logan admitted he’d never seen anything like it. His skinner, braced and totally focused, bent back to avoid the murderously accurate whip. As he did so the knife and a finger were smashed from his right hand. An instant later, the Zulu dropped his own knife, clutching at his upper arm, blood streaming through his fingers. For a second, the crashing Winchester retorts seemed to suspend time. It penetrated the hate lust of both combatants as they turned unseeing eyes towards the sound, incomprehension evident on their faces. The Zulu then stared stupefied at the blood running down his arm. His Sotho adversary’s blood-soaked hand worked spasmodically as if searching for that which was no longer there.

  Dallas lowered his rifle but for a full few seconds stood frozen to the spot. The rim of spectators fell silent, momentarily stunned, waiting to see what would happen next. Some mouths were working but the scene appeared to be bound within a cone of silence.

  ‘I’ve been shot.’

  The bellowing, pain-filled howl broke through shocked paralysis, and a babble of voices suddenly erupted. Dallas turned dazedly towards the voice, his mind scrambling for purchase, ears still singing to the reverberating blasts. Impossible! The bullets would have gone too high.