He felt an indirect flash of anger at the person who had set that noose, arid then almost immediately he wondered why he should feel particular anger at the trapper, when a dozen times he had come across the old abandoned camps of white hunters. Always there were the bones, and the piles of rotting worm-riddled horns.
The trapper was clearly a black man, and his need was greater than that of the others who came in to butcher and dry and sell.
Thinking about it, Mark felt a despondency slowly overwhelm him. Even in the few short years since he had first visited this wilderness, the game had been reduced to but a small fraction of its original numbers. Soon it would all be gone — as the old man had said, ‘The great emptiness is coming.’
Mark sat at his fireside, and he felt deeply saddened at the inevitable. No creature would ever be allowed to compete with man, and he remembered the old man again.
‘Some say the lion, others the leopard. But believe me, my boy, when a man looks in the mirror, he sees the most dangerous and merciless killer in all of nature.’
The pit had been built to resemble a sunken water reservoir. It was fifty feet across and ten feet deep, perfectly circular, plastered and floored in smooth cement.
Although there were water pipes installed and its position on the first slope of the escarpment above Ladyburg was perfectly chosen to provide the correct fall to the big gabled house below, yet it had never held water.
The circular walls were white-washed to gleaming purity, and the floor was lightly spread with clean-washed river sand and neatly raked.
Pine trees had been planted to screen the reservoir. A twelve-stranded barbed wire fence enclosed the whole plantation, and there were two guards at the gate this evening, tough, silent men who checked the guests as the cars brought them up from the big house.
There were forty-eight men and women in the excited, laughing stream that flowed through the gate, and followed the path up among the pines to where the pit was already starkly lit by the brilliant glare of the Petromax lanterns suspended on poles above it.
Dirk Courtney led the revellers. He wore black gaberdine riding breeches and polished knee-length boots to protect his legs from slashing fangs, and his white linen shirt was open almost to the navel, exposing the hard bulging muscle of his chest and the coarse black body hair which curled from the vee of the neck. The sleeves of the shirt were cut full to the wrist, and he rolled a long thin cheroot from one corner of his mouth to the other without touching it, for his arms were around the waists of the women who flanked him, young women with bold eyes and laughing painted mouths.
The dogs heard them coming and bayed at them, leaping against the padded bars of their cages, hysterical with excitement as they tried to reach each other through the gaps, snarling and snapping and slavering while the handlers attempted to shout them into silence.
The spectators lined the circular parapet of the pit, hanging over the edge. In the merciless light of the Petromax, the faces were laid bare, every emotion, every stark detail of the blood lust and sadistic anticipation was revealed – the hectic colouring of the women’s cheeks, the feverish glitter of the men’s eyes, the shrillness of their laughter and the widely exaggerated gesturing.
During the early bouts, the small dark-haired girl beside Dirk screamed and wriggled, holding her clenched fists to her open mouth, moaning and gasping with fascinated, delighted horror. Once she turned and buried her face against Dirk’s chest, pressing her body, trembling and shuddering, against him. Dirk laughed and held her around the waist. At the kill she screamed with the rest of them and her back arched; then Dirk half lifted her, as she sobbed breathlessly, and supported her to the refreshment table where there was champagne in silver buckets and sandwiches of brown bread and smoked salmon.
Charles came to where Dirk sat with the girl on his lap, feeding her champagne from a crystal glass, surrounded by a dozen of his sycophants, jovial and expansive, enjoying the rising sense of tension for the final bout of the evening when he would match his own dog, Chaka, against Charles’ animal.
‘I feel bad, Dirk,’ Charles told him. ‘They have just told me that your dog is giving almost ten pounds.’
‘That mongrel of yours will need every pound, Charles, don’t feel bad now – keep it for later, when you’ll really need it.’ Dirk was suddenly bored with the girl, and he pushed her casually from his lap, so that she almost lost her balance and fell. Piqued, she settled her skirts, pouted at Dirk and when she realized he had already forgotten her existence, she flounced away.
‘Here.’ Dirk indicated the chair beside him. ‘Do have a seat, Charles old boy, and let’s discuss your problem.’
The crowd drew closer around them, listening eagerly to their banter, and braying slavishly at each sally.
‘My problem is that I should like a small wager on the bout, but it does seem most unsporting to bet against a light dog, like yours.’ Charles grinned as he mopped his streaming red face with a silk handkerchief, sweating heavily with champagne and excitement and the closeness of the humid summer evening.
‘We all know that you make your living betting on certainties.’ Charles was a stock-broker from the Witwaters-rand. ‘However, the expression of such noble sentiment does you great credit.’ Dirk tapped his shoulder with the hilt of his dog-whip, a familiar condescending gesture that made Charles’ grin tighten wolfishly.
‘You will accommodate me then?’ he asked, nodding and winking at his own henchmen in the press of listening men. ‘At even money?’
‘Of course, as much as you want.’
‘My dog Kaiser, against your Chaka, to the death. Even money, a wager of—’ Charles paused and looked to the ladies, smoothing the crisp little moustache with its lacing of iron grey, drawing out the moment. ‘One thousand pounds in gold.’ The crowd gasped and exclaimed, and some of the listeners applauded, a smattering of handclaps.
‘No! No!’ Dirk Courtney held up both hands in protest. ‘Not a thousand!’ and the listeners groaned, his own claque shocked and crestfallen at this loss of prestige.
‘Oh dear,’ Charles murmured, ‘too strong for your blood? Name the wager then, old boy.’
‘Let’s have some real interest — say ten thousand in gold.’ Dirk tapped Charles’ shoulder again, and the man’s grin froze over. The colour faded from the scarlet face, leaving it blotched purple and puffy white. The small acquisitive eyes darted quickly around the circle of laughing applauding faces, as if seeking an escape, and then slowly, reluctantly returned to Dirk’s face. He tried to say something, but his voice squeaked and broke like a pubescent boy.
‘Ah, and what exactly does that mean?’ Dirk inquired with elaborate politeness. Charles would not trust his voice again, but he nodded jerkily and tried to resurrect his cheeky grin, but it was crooked and tense and hung awkwardly on his face.
Dirk carried the dog under his right arm, enjoying the hard rubbery feel of the animal’s compact body, carrying its fifty-pound weight easily, as he dropped lightly down the steps to the floor of the pit.
Every muscle in the dog’s body was strained to a fine tension, and Dirk could feel the jump and flutter of nerves and sinew, every limb was stiff and trembling, and the deep crackling snarls kept erupting up the thick throat, shaking the whole body.
He set the dog down on the raked sand, with the leash twisted securely around his left wrist, and as the dog’s paws touched ground he lunged forward, coming up short against the leash so hard that Dirk was almost pulled off his feet.
‘Hey, you bastard,’ he shouted, and pulled the animal back.
Across the pit, Charles and his handler were bringing down Kaiser, and it needed both their strength for he was a big dog, black as hell, and touched with tan at the eyes and chest, a legacy of the Dobermann Pinscher in his breeding.
Chaka saw him, his lunges and struggles became wilder and fiercer, and the snarls sounded like thick canvas ripping in a hurricane.
The timekeeper called from the parap
et, lifting his voice above the excited buzz of the watchers.
‘Very well, gentlemen, bate them!’
The two owners set them at each other with cries of ‘Sick him up, Kaiser!’ and ‘Get him boy. Kill! Kill!’ but held them double-handed on the leash, driving them into a madness of frustration and anger.
On the short leash, the Dobermann weaved and ducked, leggy for a fighting dog, with big shoulders dropping back to lower quarters. He had good teeth, however, and a threatening gape, enough to lock the teeth into the killer grip at the throat. He was fast too, swinging and weaving against the leash, barking and thrusting with the long almost snake-like neck.
Chaka did not bark, but the thick barrel of his chest vibrated to the deep rolling snarls and he stood foursquare on his short legs. He was heavy and low in silhouette, Staffordshire bull terrier blood carefully crossed with mastiff, and his coat was coarse and brindled gold on black. The head was short and thick, like that of a viper, and when he snarled, his upper lip lifted back in deep creases revealing the long ivory yellow fangs and the dark pink gums. He watched the other dog with yellow leopard eyes.
‘Bate them! Bate them!’ yelled the crowd above, and the owners worked the leashes like jockeys pushing for the post, pointing the animals at each other and driving them on.
Dirk slipped a small steel implement from his pocket, and dropped on his knee beside his dog. Instantly the animal swung on him with gaping jaws but the heavy muzzle caged his fangs. His saliva was beginning to froth, and it splattered the spotless linen of Dirk’s shirt.
Dirk reached behind the dog and stabbed the short spur of steel into his flesh, a shallow goading wound at the root of his testicles, just enough to break the skin and draw a drop of blood — the animal snarled on a newer higher note, slashing sideways, and Dirk goaded him again, driving him further and further into the black fighting rage. Now at last he barked, a series of almost maniacal surges of sound from his straining throat.
‘Ready to slip,’ shouted Dirk, struggling to manage his animal.
‘Ready here!’ Charles panted across the pit, his feet sliding in the sand as Kaiser reared chest high.
‘Slip them!’ yelled the timekeeper, and at the same instant, both men slipped muzzle and leash and studded collars, leaving both animals free, and unprotected.
Charles turned and scrambled hurriedly out of the pit, but Dirk waited extra seconds, not wanting to miss the moment when they came together.
The Dobermann showed his speed across the pit, meeting Chaka in his own ground, bounding in on those long legs, leaning forward so the sloping back was flattened in his run.
He went for the head, slashing open the skin below the eye in a clean sabre-stroke of white teeth, but not holding.
Chaka did not go for a hold either, but turned at the instant of impact; using his shoulder and the massive strength of his squat frame, he hit the bigger dog off-balance, breaking his charge, so that he spun away and would have gone over but the white-washed wall caught him, and saved him – for Chaka had turned neatly to catch him as he fell.
Now, however, Kaiser was up and with a quick shift of weight he was in balance again – and he cut for the face mask, missing as the small brindled dog ducked, catching only the short cropped ear and splitting it, so that blood flew in black droplets to splatter the sand.
Again Chaka hit with the shoulder, blood streaming from cheek to ear, as he put his weight into the charge. The bigger dog reared out, declining to meet shoulder with shoulder and as he came over he went for a hold – but the crowd screamed as they saw his mistake.
‘Drop it! Drop it!’ howled Charles, his face purple as an over-ripe plum – for his dog had got into that thick loose skin padded with fat between the shoulder, and he growled as he worried it.
‘Work him, Chaka. Work him!’ howled Dirk, balancing easily on the narrow parapet above them. ‘Now’s your chance, boy.’
Locked into his grip the Dobermann was holding too high, his neck and head up and off-balance. As he worried the hold, it gave and pulled like rubber, not affording purchase or leverage to throw his weight across and bring down the brindled terrier.
The smaller dog seemed not even to feel the grip, although a small artery had ruptured, sending a fine spurt of blood dancing into the lantern light like a pink flamingo’s feather.
‘Drop it,’ screamed Charles again in agony, wringing his hands, sweat dripping from his chin.
‘Belly him! Belly him!’ exhorted Dirk, and his dog twisted under the big dog’s chest, forcing him higher so that his front paws were off the ground, and he hit him in the belly, gaping wide and then plunging his yellow eye teeth full into the bare, shiny dark skin below the ribs.
The Dobermann screamed and dropped his shoulder hold, twisting out violently so that Chaka’s fangs tore out of his belly hold, ripping out a flap of stomach-lining through which wet purple entrails bulged immediately – but he beat the terrier’s try for the throat, jaw clashing into open snarling jaw, and teeth cracked together, before they spun off and circled.
Both heads were masks of blood now, eyelids blinking rapidly, the eyeballs smeared with flying blood from wound and bite, the fur of the faces plastered with black blood, blood filling the mouths and turning the exposed teeth pink, trickling from the corners of the jaw, staining the froth of saliva bright rose red.
Twice more they came together, each charge initiated by the smaller squatter Chaka, but each time the Dobermann avoided the solid contact of chest to chest for which Chaka’s instincts dictated that he must keep trying. Instead, Chaka received two more slashes deeply through the brindled skin, into the flesh, down to white bone, so that when his next charge carried him to the wall he left a broad thick smear of red across the white-wash before turning to attack again.
The Dobermann was humped up from the belly wound, arching his back to the agony of it, but fast and lithe still, not trying for another hold since that fool’s hold at the shoulder, but cutting hard and deep and keeping off his opponent like a skilled boxer.
Chaka was losing too much blood now, and as he circled again he lolled his tongue for the first time, frothy saliva discoloured with blood dripping from it, and Dirk swore aloud at this sign of weakness and imminent collapse.
Big Kaiser attacked again now, cutting in sharply as though for the throat and then turning in a low dark streak for another weakening flank cut. As he hit, Chaka turned into him steeply, and snapped at his lean belly again, reaching low and with fortune taking a hold on the bulging entrails that showed in the open flap of the wound.
Instantly the terrier went stiff on his forelegs, and hunched his neck, bringing his chin down on to his chest to hold the grip. The Dobermann’s charge carried him on and his entrails were pulled out of him, a long thick glistening ribbon in the lantern light – and the women screamed, high with anguished delight, while the men roared.
Chaka crossed the bigger dog’s rump now, still holding his guts, and tangled his back legs in the slippery rubbery pink tubes that hung out of the stomach cavity, so that he stumbled off-balance — and the terrier lunged forward, hitting him solidly with the chest, knocking him into the air so he dropped onto his back, screaming and kicking.
Chaka’s follow-up was so instinctive, so natural to his breed, that it was swift as the flash of a striking adder and he had his killing hold – locked deep and hard into the throat, bearing down with the solid bone of his jaws, snuffling and working his head on the short hunched neck until his long eye teeth met in the Dobermann’s windpipe.
Dirk Courtney jumped down lightly from the parapet; his laugh was pitched unnaturally high and his face was darkened to a congested sullen red as he whipped off his dog, and turned the carcass of the Dobermann with the toe of his boot.
‘A fair kill?’ he laughed up at Charles, and the man glowered down at him a moment before shrugging acknowledgement of defeat and turning away.
Dicky Lancome sat with the voice-piece of the telephone set on the de
sk in front of him and the ear-piece held loosely to his cheek, trapped there by a hunched shoulder while he trimmed his fingernails with a gold-plated penknife.
‘What can I say, old girl, except that I am desolate, but then Aunty Hortense was rich as that fellow that turned everything to gold, that’s right Midas, or was it Croesus, I just cannot give her funeral a miss, you do understand? You don’t?’ and he sighed dramatically, as he returned the penknife to his waistcoat pocket and began to thumb through the address book for the other girl’s number. ‘No, old girl, how can you say that? Are you certain? Must have been my sister—’
It was almost noon on Saturday morning and Dicky had the premises of Natal Motors to himself. He was making his domestic arrangements for the weekend on the firm’s telephone account before locking up, and finding some wisdom in the admonition against changing mounts in midstream.
At that moment he was distracted by the crack of footsteps on the marbled floor of the showroom, and he swivelled his chair for a glimpse through the door of his cubicle.
There was no mistaking the tall figure that strode through the street doors, the wide shoulders and thrusting bearded jaw, the dark glint of eyes like those of an old eagle.