08 Safari Adventure (6 page)

Presently the place looked more like a bedroom than a battle-ground. Everywhere sleeping bodies sprawled in the grass. Even those caught in the cruel traps did not cry out with pain, for they were unconscious.

Two who had run so well that they had almost reached the thorn fence were brought down by Zulu. Now they also were asleep. ‘Into the Power-wagon,’ Hal ordered. ‘Into the cage.’ The Power-wagon was the truck generally used for carrying captured animals. In it was a huge elephant cage. The happy safari men and rangers dragged the sleeping poachers to the cage and thrust them in.

Wire snares that had trapped some runaways were easily removed. It was not so easy to open the lion traps and elephant traps. These were like the bear traps sometimes used in American forests, but larger and stronger. The teeth of the trap caught a man’s ankle and dug in fiercely.

The warden, trying to free a sleeper from such a trap, called Hal and Roger.

‘You remember I told you about two of my rangers who were caught in traps and eaten alive? You may have wondered why they couldn’t free themselves. After all, a man has something the average animal doesn’t have -two hands. Well, try to open that trap with your hands.’

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.

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.’

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.’