Free The Last Leopard by Lauren St. John Page A

she became aware that Ben—the bravest boy she knew—was crying for exactly the same reasons.
    That evening the sun, slipping below the ragged green hills, was the color of blood, and as they rode home through the lengthening black shadows the rocks moaned just as Ngwenya had described, only it was not the voice of Mwali that Martine heard, but the cries of all the animals who would go helplessly to their graves at the Lazy J unless she and Ben did something to prevent it.

9
    “ C anned hunting,” Sadie said heavily. “That’s what it’s called.”
     
    They’d confronted her soon after returning to Black Eagle, their faces dusty and streaked with tears. She and Martine’s grandmother had come rushing to meet them at the stables, ready to scold them for returning so late, but Sadie had taken one look at them and dispatched Gwyn Thomas, protesting loudly, to deal with dinner. Ngwenya wouldn’t hear of them feeding or rubbing down their horses. They’d ended up sitting outside the stables with Sadie, who’d listened without saying anything to their passionate account of the horror they’d witnessed at the Lazy J.
    Now they were gathered around the kitchen table in the flickering candlelight. It was spring in Southern Africa and the temperature still dropped steeply at night, so there was a crackling fire burning in the grate. Under any other circumstances, Martine thought, the scene would have been magical.
    Gwyn Thomas said, “What is canned hunting?”
    “It’s when animals that are dangerous, rare, or hard to track, such as lion, leopard, or rhino, are put into small enclosures in order for hunters to safely and easily shoot them,” Sadie explained. “These hunters are usually rich tourists or powerful men like government ministers who want a guaranteed kill with minimum risk. They want to go home with a skin or a horn or a couple of tusks, and tell stories about how they stalked and shot a deadly wild animal.
    “Rex Ratcliffe, who owns the Lazy J, has always claimed that he is running a respectable safari and hunting operation, but Ngwenya and I have suspected for many years that he is up to all sorts of tricks, including canned hunting. What you’ve seen today proves it. I’m sorry you had to witness that. I hope you can put it behind you and enjoy the rest of your stay at Black Eagle.”
    She reached for a serving plate. “Anyone for butternut fritters?”
    Martine couldn’t believe her ears. Sadie had as good as told them that her next-door neighbor was murdering wildlife in cold blood. She couldn’t seriously expect them to continue their vacation without a care.
    As for the fritters, well, Martine liked butternut squash as much as anyone, but after almost a week of eating it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she was heartily tired of it. She found it peculiar that the groceries they’d brought had gone into the locked pantry and never come out again, but suspected that if times were as hard at Black Eagle as they appeared to be, Sadie was probably saving the interesting food for any visitors who might show up. Not that it mattered this evening. Every time her stomach rumbled Martine remembered the lion and felt sick again.
    “You must eat something,” urged her grandmother. “Have some potatoes or even just a slice of bread and peanut butter.”
    Martine took a few potatoes to keep Gwyn Thomas happy but did little more than move them around her plate. Across the table, Ben was doing the same.
    Sadie seemed determined to ensure there was no more talk of hunting or dead lions. She launched into a dreary rant about the high price of spare parts for cars. Martine started to simmer. She was fed up with Sadie pretending that everything at Black Eagle was completely fine when it obviously wasn’t. The fire was making her very hot, and that didn’t help her mood either.
    Ben seemed to guess what she was about to do and gave a warning shake of his head. When she ignored him, he kicked her under the