Place of Bones (28 page)

              The only thing about it was that it gave me some free resting time. I said
,“
I think yo
u’
re mistaken
.
”

              The remark sounded ludicrous even to me.

              Komo replied
,“I’
m not, boss
.
”

              I said
,“
Oh, I think you are..
.
”

              And so it went on.

              In the end, I said
,“
Okay. You grant me the one I missed, and
I’
ll lop one off your next go. Ho
w’
s that
?
”

              I was sure he was going to fall for it. He thought about it for a moment as the sun looked down and shook its head at the stupidity some people can perpetrate. He, Komo, almost nodded. In the end he did
n’
t. He cocked me a suspicious look.

            
 “
That wo
n’
t work
.
”

              I said
,“
But it was worth a try
.
”

              He narrowed his eyes
.“
I did fifty-one
,
” he said pedantically.

              To be truthful, I could
n’
t remember if he had or not. But I did know that Komo would never lie, even as a jok
e
– well,
especially
as a joke - about something that important to him. Komo was Komo. His lines were drawn in different places. And the whole thing had gone quite far enough
.“
Okay. You get to do forty-nine next trip
.
”

              He nodded, honor satisfied, and climbed back onto the anthill.

              Amazing.

              I swung the hammer, glad that no one else had been around to witness the exchange.

              CRACK!

              Komo said
,“
Five
,
” and stretched languidly, all in his world now right and proper.

              I swung again.

              CRACK!

              Komo said
,“
Six
,
” and he slid back down off the anthill and wandered over to the edge of the drop and gazed down at the river, some sixty feet below the track.

              At his back I yelled
,“
Crack
!
”

              He held up both his hands and showed me six fingers without turning. I displayed two at his back and returned to the rock.

              CRACK!

              The vibrations rattled my bones

              Komo called
,“
Seven
.
”

              The day wore on, with the rock loosing all the chippings in the world but none, it seemed, of its size. It just lay there being a goddam awkward rock in a goddamn awkward spot of the only track up the ridge, taking everything we could throw its way.

              But we stuck at it, taking our turns.

              It was either that or a sixty-mile back- and side-track to the route w
e’
d used to get into that suntrap of a valley in the first place. And down in that boulder-strewn, crevasse-pocked waste of super-heated nothingness, sixty miles meant four days, plus, in all probability, another broken drive shaft. And who carries more than one spare drive shaft with them?

              Come to that, who in their right mind would spend three weeks trying to shoot dynamite with rifles!

              Me and Komo is who!

              Because Freddy Garrant, back in Port Harcourt, had sold us a whole load of useless detonators. And because we had spent all that time and energy getting to the interior in the first place, we had to try some damned thing.

              And w
e’
d tried it all.

              We tried hammers and picks.

              We tried hammers and cold chisels.

              And all we got by way of a return on investment was aching backs and calluses.

              Then we tried shooting the dynamite to death, and that had
n’
t worked either.

              If
I’
d been certain of finding gold-bearing quartz beneath that slab of granite; one hundred and one percent certain, I might have tried worrying my way through to it with my teeth. But I was never that certain. And you do
n’
t risk your teeth and your sanity on a second-hand maybe.

              So in the end, the bitter end, w
e’
d decided to cut on back to civilization. The
quicker
way!

              We thought!

              Up over the high plains instead of all the way around them. And then there was the damned rock. It was stuck in the middle of what was otherwise a reasonable track. A track with a river-filled gorge on the one hand, and a near-vertical rise on the other.

              That was late yesterday afternoon.

              At first, for want of a better idea, we had tried our original rock-blasting ploy; the one that had been so singularly unsuccessful back in the valley. We cold-chiseled a hole into the side of the thing, slap in the middle of this fault that was there for all the world to
SEE.
Dammit! And we had shoved in a stick of dynamite. Then we retired to a safe distance and let loose of upwards of fifty rounds of .42 rifle shot at the hole, trying to get a slug down into it to explode the dynamite.

              But the angle was all wrong, if it could ever have been right. Plus, there was the equation of being far enough away for safety, yet close enough for accuracy. Anyway, it needed the luckiest shot on Go
d’
s tortured earth.

              And we were
n’
t having too many lucky days.

              Hence the twenty-pound sledge hammer. Give the bloody thing enough concentrated punishment, I figured, and it must eventually snap clean in half, right down that fault that was there for all the world to
SEE
. Dammit!

              Pushing dusk that second day...

              Komo had the honors and the count stood at a judiciously correct thirty-two. He started to take his swing. Then he stopped. He rested the hammer on the rock and folded his arms on the tip of the handle. He had this faraway look in his eyes.

            
 “Y’
know, boss..
.
”

              I figured I was about to hear something profound
.“
What
?
”

            
 “
I think
,
” Komo went on
,“
maybe I rip Garran
t’
s balls for him
.
”

              He presented an odd picture, standing there on that rock wearing nothing but a pair of my old ripped-off-at-the-thigh jeans, covered in a layer of sweat-sodden red dust and trying to look serious while he talked about ripping someon
e’
s balls. (
Off
, I guessed. He did
n’
t elaborate).

            
 “
Tha
t’
s it
?
” I asked.

              He nodded
.“
Tha
t’
d be good
.
” He lifted the hammer and swung it an almighty blow at the rock; which at that moment probably represented one or both of Freddy Garran
t’
s balls.

              CRACK!

              The head hit, and the handle, I guess figuring that enough punishment was enough punishment, snapped cleanly. The head rebounded off the rock and sailed through the air over my head.

              I said
,“
Thirty-three
,
” and stepped over to the edge of the drop and watched the hunk of solid metal curve neatly down. The water exploded in a million diamonds of reflected sunlight. I lit up a cigarette and watched the ripples subside.

              Komo stepped over to join me. He took the cigarette from between my lips, sucked at it, then replaced it in my mouth. He heaved the broken handle out to join its head.

              Komo was a Masai, of course, of the Manyatta tribe. And those people are not noted for an inbuilt deference to those who arbitrarily consider the color of their skin a passport to the world and all its treasures. They have this weird notion that a person; black, white or pink, is to be judged only by the value of his or her deeds.

              I once tried to explain the way things were.

              He did
n’
t get it. He was learning
my
slant on the subject, certainly. But his own opinions were still just that; his own.

              We looked down at the river in silence. The ripples had been replaced by muddy bubbles that burst in a vaguely obscene manner on the surface.

              Komo surprised me by saying
,“
Fuck me, boss
!
”

              My guess was that he was puzzled as to why a hammer, one of modern civilizatio
n’
s wonders, should have seen fit to break. Komo rarely swore; at least not in English. For sure I had never heard him say
,“
Fuck m
e
” before, in
any
context.

              I said
,“
No. Thanks all the same
,“
and he gave me an odd sideways glance. Then we both turned to look at the rock.

              It had
n’
t moved so much as a muscle.

              A rethink was indicated.

              I said
,“
Le
t’
s eat
.
”

              And that was when the first shot rang out.

TWO:

Crack!

              The bullet hissed between me and Komo and thudded into the rise behind us. The echoes of the shot raced away over the valley in a diminishing volley. It was so sudden and so unexpected that for a moment neither of us could move.

              Crack!

              This bullet clipped a rock at our feet and screeched away into the air.

              We woke up at last, spun around and dived in stereo for the cover of the rock w
e’
d been wishing was not there, as a third shot kicked up a fountain of dirt from the track.

              And for fifteen seconds it was bedlam.

              Shots splattered everywhere.

              Dirt flew everywhere.

              Lead ricocheted everywhere.

              We huddled there behind the rock that, all of a sudden, did not seem so big after all. Then there was silence.

              Komo, his face buried somewhere in the small of my back, said
,“
Wh
o’
s that, boss
?
”

              Under the circumstances, an odd question. I hissed
,“
How the hell should I know
!
” and I wondered why we were whispering.

              Komo offered
,“
Bandits, maybe
.
”

              He meant rebels.

              This was rebel country.

              I grunted. What did it matter who it was; it was what they were doing to us that mattered. I risked a peek out around the rock.

              Crack!

              I got a faceful of dirt for my pains and ducked back into cover. But I was sure I had seen a puff of smoke over on the rim of the escarpment on the far side of the river. The distance was five hundred yards if it was a foot, so it was pretty good shooting.

              I looked back down the track to where we had left the Land Rover. Our rifles were propped against the blindside front mudguard. They seemed a million miles away.

              But it had to be done.

              I was wondering about the best way to do it when I felt Komo move behind me. He mumbled something, slapped my shoulder, and was gone before I could stop him.

              Crack! Crack! Crack!

              The shots stitched a pattern of dust-puffs into the rise at Kom
o’
s right hand as he charged, ducking and weaving, down the track. I called him a dumb, impetuous bastard in my mind and urged him on. It should have been me out there doing the hero stuff. I paid Komo to help, not lead the way.

              But Komo was Komo.

              I risked another peek out around the rock.

              SPLATTEweee!

              That ricochet near parted my hair and a small sliver of rock bit into my cheek and stayed there. I ducked back. I now knew that there were two guns over there - at least - and that both of them were on the ball, coordinating well. This was not good news.

              But Komo was luckier than a farmyard of geriatric chickens. With bullets kicking up dirt and gravel all around him he made it to the Land Rover, grabbed the rifles, and skidded on around the bend.

              The shooting stopped and I let out the breath
I’
d been holding. I yelled
,“
You okay, Komo
?
”

              The corner muffled his reply
.“
Yeah, boss
.
”

              The rifles on the escarpment went Crack! Crack! Crack! and the rock in front of me lost more chippings. I tasted blood and dust. I tweaked the sliver of rock from my cheek and looked at it.

              CRACK! CRACK!

              That was Kom
o’
s Savage-99. It had a clean, sophisticated sound. I was glad to hear it. He fired again and I took another look out around the rock. This time I did not get a faceful of dirt. Now w
e’
re rolling, I thought, and I looked at the stretch between the corner and me.

              Komo called
,“
Ready, boss
?
”

              I yelled
,“
Whenever you like, Komo
.
” I added
,“
You got them pinpointed
?
”

              Komo called
,“
No, boss. But I know where they are
.
”

              ?

              Wars have started on less important misunderstandings than that. I could imagine Komo down there wondering what the hell points of pins had to do with anything. Komo's english was good, if a shade lacking on the syntax side. You had to keep reminding yourself that it was a foreign language to him. I yelled
,“
Okay
!
”

              Komo called
,“
Now
!
” and his Savage began to spit on semi-automatic.

              I launched myself from behind the rock and charged down the track. The sweat poured from me in rivers as I pumped power into my legs, leaping and jumping and jigging like a madman. If I drew fire I was not aware of it. I had eyes only for the bend in the track, those million and a half miles away.

              I drew level with the Land Rover and had a brief urge to dive behind it. That urge died as quickly as it had come. If I used the Land Rover as cover, and it took a bullet in the wrong place, w
e’
d be stuck out there whatever happened with our unknown assailants. I ran on.

              Against all the odds I made it around the bend and skidded to a messy stop in a cloud of red dust, gasping like an asthmatic.

              Komo stopped shooting. He said
,“
Old women, boss
.
”

              I coughed up a lungful of dust and sorted myself out
.“
What
?
”

              Komo handed me my Enfield
.“
Old women
,
” he repeated, nodding his head in the direction of the now invisible escarpment
.“
The
y’
re shooting like old women
.
” He ducked down and snatched another quick volley out around the corner. The reply kicked up more dirt and sent another ricochet screaming into the air. Komo shook his head and clucked his tongue, like he knew something I did
n’
t.

              I sucked in some more air and checked the Enfield for a load. You sometimes had to think twice before replying to one of Kom
o’
s more oblique statements. I said
,“
Speaking on a purely personal level, Komo, I do
n’
t think the
y’
re doing too badly at all. Tha
t’
s five hundred yards if i
t’
s an inch
.
”

              He looked at me. His face was a map of sweat-streaked red dust
.“
Then why they keep missi
n
’ so close
?
” Beneath the dust I could just make out his sage expression. His eyes glinted in the sunlight like water at the bottom of dark wells.

              I remembered my maxim about always listening to Komo when he was being sage. I thought about it. And he was right. It did not make any sense, but he
was
right. I sat on my haunches and thought about it some more. A miss is generally considered as good as a mile. But their misses had been too localized, too grouped. The rock, for example, had taken at least three out of every four bullets. And it was not that big a rock. Awkward, yes. Higher than the axle of the Land Rover, yes. But big, no.

              Yet they had plastered it with almost every shot!

              Surely to God, I thought, with such grouping the law of common averages would have dictated a body-hit of some kind. Yet there we both were. Fifty yards from the rock in two separate runs and neither of us with so much as a scratch - discounting the rock sliver in my face.

              I said
,“
That does
n’
t make any sense, Komo
.
”

              He looked at me
.“
Then
what
, boss
?
”

              I pulled a face. What indeed? I shrugged
.“
Le
t’
s find out.
I’
ll cut on up the blind side of this ridge. You stay here and keep them occupied. Okay
?
”

              He returned my shrug
.“
Okay, boss
.
”

              I glanced up into the gaping maw of the sun. I closed my eyes, wishing I had
n’
t bothered. I opened them again and looked at the ridge above me. The su
n’
s image clung to my retinas.

              I started to climb, seeing the sun superimposed on every rock.

              It took me twenty minutes to get to a good position, during which time Komo let go with a couple of rounds. He received nothing by way of a reply, which was indicative of something or other. I slipped into a handy gully and waited for the sweat to stop gushing out of my pores. It eased, but it did
n’
t stop. The sun hammered down like a living thing. The valley below swam in a sea of shimmering haze and the mountains to the north looked like a convoy of misshapen yachts plying the horizon. I could not see the river or the track from my position.

              I eased myself upwards and took a look out over the void.

              I was slightly higher than the far escarpment but could see no signs of movement. I raised myself a bit more. It all looked different from up there and
I’
d lost my bearings.

              I called
,“
Komo
!
”

              His voice drifted up to me, thin and reedy on the superheated air
.“
Yeah, boss
?
”

            
 “
Fire at their position
!
”

              A pause.

              Crack! Crack!

              I saw tiny blobs of white as his hits raised dirt.

              Nothing else.

              I raised my Enfield and rested it on the rock in front of me, focusing the cross hairs of the sight on the position Komo had fired at. Rocks, and more rocks. I panned left and right. Then up and down. Nothing. A droplet of sweat loosed its grip on my right eyebrow and ran into my eye. It stuck like the devil.

              Crack! Crack! Crack!

              The mound of dirt just forward of the rock seemed to rise up and smother me. I ducked back, cursing, more annoyed than startled. My right eye was streaming water and refused to be blinked clear. I rubbed at it with a knuckle and made it worse. I heard Kom
o’
s voice.

            
 “
Higher, boss
!
”

              The gully was as hot as a skillet and I felt I was being parboiled over a high flame, right eye first. I blinked and rubbed and swore.

              Crack! Crack!

              That was the Savage.

              At last the eye cleared.

              Keeping my head low, back beneath the level of the ridge, I scanned the distant escarpment, panning upwards.

              There!

              A figure disappeared behind an outcrop, moving upwards. Then another.

              Crack! Crack!

              The Savage again.

              I lined up my Enfield and waited.

              Something moved over there. I fired and saw my shot raise dirt at least a yard below the intersection of the sight cross hairs. I extended my right thumb and gave the knurled knob of the rangefinder a slight twist. Then I fired at nothing but the crosshairs.

              The puff appeared dead centre this time.