James Chase - Vulture Is a Patient Bird

“What is it?”

“Those three are in trouble. Put your things on and come out. It’s too damn hot in here.”

There was a hard note in his voice and she could see he was impatient with her lying there like a cat before a fire. She slipped into her clothes and came out to join him in the shade.

The road collapsed, and they’ve lost the Land Rover,” Garry told her. “Ken was nearly killed.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No… shaken, but all right, now they’ll have to walk and it’s a hell of a walk.”

“But they’ll get there?”

“They think so. They’ll be contacting me again in two hours.”

“And the equipment?”

“That’s all right. They unloaded before attempting to get over the worst part of the track.”

“How will they get back?”

“We’ll all have to fly out… nothing else for it. It’ll be a load, but it can be done.”

She relaxed, resting her back against the tree.

“So it really isn’t so bad… they’ll just have to walk.”

“In this heat, it won’t be so good.”

“Oh, well… get some of that ape’s fat off. Do you know how to pluck and draw a bird, Garry?”

“No… do you?”

“No. So we won’t bother to hunt guinea-fowl. We’ll have beans and bacon for lunch.” She got to her feet. “I’m going to have another swim… coming?”

He hesitated. “Those three are worrying me, Gaye.”

“Then a swim with me will put them out of your mind. There’s nothing we can do for them… so come on and swim.”

She went into the tent for the towels and then together they walked in the burning sun towards the pool.

Fennel wished now he hadn’t drunk so much beer in the past. The rough, stony track, the hot sun and the pace that Ken was setting all reminded him of how out of condition he was. The strap of his tool bag was rubbing his shoulder raw. Sweat streamed down his face and blackened his shirt. He was breathing heavily.

At a guess, he thought, they had covered only six kilometres. Ken had talked of thirty kilometres before they reached Kahlenberg’s place. Twenty-four kilometres! Fennel gritted his teeth. He was certain he couldn’t do it with this tool kit: it got heavier and heavier with every step he took. Apart from his tool kit, he was also carrying his rucksack.

Before setting off, they had decided to leave the sleeping bags and the shotgun. Ken carried the Springfield and his own rucksack, Themba was carrying a rucksack stuffed with provisions and a five litre jerrycan of water.

Fennel plodded on, dragging one foot after the other. He longed for some shade, but there was none on this narrow track. He badly wanted a drink and thought regretfully of the beer they had left behind them. He had wanted it along with them, but when Ken said it was okay with him if Fennel would carry it, Fennel decided against the idea.

He paused to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and was stung with mortification to see the other two walking and chatting together, well ahead of him.

Ken glanced back and then stopped. Themba continued on for a few steps and then he stopped.

Fennel felt a spurt of rage go through him. He came plodding up to them. One look at his exhausted face told Ken that he was going to be a liability. Themba thought so too, and putting down the jerrycan he said something to Fennel who didn’t understand.

“He says he’ll carry your tool bag if you’ll carry the jerrycan,” Ken translated.

Fennel hesitated, but he knew the bag now was too much for him.

“What makes him think he can carry it?” he demanded, lowering the bag thankfully to the ground.

“He wouldn’t make the offer if he didn’t,” Ken pointed out as Themba hoisted up the bag and slung it on his shoulder.

Fennel hesitated, then said, “Well, tell him… thanks. It’s a bitch of a thing to carry.” He caught hold of the jerrycan and the three men continued on their way: the other two slowing down to keep pace with Fennel.

The next hour was a hellish up-hill grind for Fennel, but he kept plodding on, breathing heavily, furious with himself to see how easily the other two were taking the ordeal.

“How about a drink?” he gasped, coming to a halt.

But the drink gave him no satisfaction as the water was warm and anyway, Fennel loathed drinking water.

Ken looked at his watch.

“In another ten minutes, we’ll call Garry. Then we’ll have a rest.”

“That guy must have been born lucky,” Fennel growled, picking up the jerrycan. “He doesn’t know how well off he is.” They continued on, and at 13.00 hrs., they left the track and sat down in the shade of the jungle. Ken contacted Garry and reported progress.

“We should be in position by 18.00 hrs.,” he said, and added the going was rough.

Garry made sympathetic noises, said he would be standing by at 15.00 hrs. and switched off.

After half an hour’s rest, they continued on for another hour, then Ken said it was time to eat. They left the sun soaked track and sat down in the shade of the trees. Themba opened cans of steak pie and baked beans.

“How much farther?” Fennel asked, his mouth full.

Ken consulted Themba.

“About six kilometres and then we’ll be in the jungle.”

“Ask him if he wants me to carry the bag again.”

“He’s okay… don’t bother about it.”

“Ask him! That bag’s goddamn heavy!”

Ken spoke to Themba who grinned and shook his head.

“Black people are used to carrying white men’s burdens,” Ken said, keeping his face straight.

Fennel eyed him.

“Okay, I’ll take that… so he’s a better man than I am.”

“Skip it or I’ll burst into tears.”

Fennel smiled sourly.

“My time’s coming. You two may be pretty hot with this jungle and walking crap, but you wait until you see me in action.”

Ken offered his pack of cigarettes and the two men lit up.

Do you think he’s giving it to her?” Fennel asked abruptly. When not on his discomforts, his mind kept returning to Gaye.

“Who’s giving what to whom?” Ken asked blandly.

Fennel hesitated, then shrugged. “Forget it!”

An hour later, they again contacted Garry and again reported progress, then they left the mountain track and entered the jungle. Although it was steamy hot, the relief of constant shade helped them to quicken their pace.

Themba led the way with Ken and Fennel following. A narrow track through the dense undergrowth forced them to walk in single file. Overhead, Vervet monkeys swung from tree to tree, watching them. A big sable buck that was standing in the middle of the track as they rounded a high shrub went crashing away into the jungle, startling Fennel.

They had to keep a watch-out for shrubs with long, sharp thorns, and they all concentrated on the ground ahead of them. None of them suspected that they were being watched. High on a branch of a tree sat a giant Zulu, wearing only a leopard skin. In his right hand, he held a two-way radio. He waited until the three men had passed, then spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece of the radio, his message being picked up by Miah, Kahlenberg’s secretary, who had been detailed to keep in touch with the twenty watching Zulus positioned to report the movements of strangers on the estate.

From the moment the three men entered the jungle, they were never out of sight from the watchful eyes of the Zulus, hidden in the undergrowth or concealed in the tree tops.

Miah took down the Zulus’ reports in rapid shorthand, passed them to Ho-Du who rapidly transcribed them on a typewriter and then had them sent immediately to Kahlenberg.

Kahlenberg was enjoying this. The drama of the Land Rover had been observed and reported to him, and now he knew these three men were actually on his estate.