Free The Leopard Hunts in Darkness by Wilbur Smith Page A

have done with it.’
    ‘Yet he speaks like a brother,’ murmured the leader, ‘and Comrade Tungata is a hard man—’
    Craig realized that his life was still at desperate risk, a little push either way was all that was needed.
    ‘I will show you,’ he said, still without the slightest quaver in his voice. ‘Let me go to my pack.’
    The leader hesitated.
    ‘I am naked,’ Craig told him. ‘No weapons – not even a knife – and you are three, with guns.’
    ‘Go!’ the Matabele agreed. ‘But go with care. I have not killed a man for many moons – and I feel the lack.’
    Craig stood up carefully from the water and saw the interest in their eyes as they studied his leg foreshortened halfway between knee and ankle, and the compensating muscular development of the
other leg and the rest of his body. The interest changed to wary respect as they saw how quickly and easily Craig moved on one leg. He reached his pack with water running down the hard flat muscles
of chest and belly. He had come prepared for this meeting, and from the front pocket of his pack he pulled out his wallet and handed a coloured snapshot to the guerrilla leader.
    In the photograph two men sat on the bonnet of an ancient Land-Rover. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders, and both of them were laughing. Each of them held a beer can in his
free hand and with it was saluting the photographer. The accord and camaraderie between them was evident.
    The scarred guerrilla studied it for a long time and then slipped the selector on his rifle to lock. ‘It is Comrade Tungata,’ he said, and handed the photograph to the others.
    ‘Perhaps,’ conceded the youngster reluctantly, ‘but a long time ago. I still think we should shoot him.’ However, this opinion was now more wistful than determined.
    ‘Comrade Tungata would swallow you without chewing,’ his companion told him flatly, and slung his rifle over his shoulder.
    Craig picked up his leg and in a moment had fitted it to the stump – and instantly all three guerrillas were intrigued, their murderous intentions set aside as they crowded around Craig to
examine this marvellous appendage.
    Fully aware of the African love of a good joke, Craig clowned for them. He danced a jig, pirouetted on the leg, cracked himself across the shin without flinching, and finally took the hat of the
youngest, most murderous guerrilla from his head, screwed it into a ball and with a cry of ‘Pele!’ drop-kicked it into the lower branches of the wild fig with the artificial leg. The
other two hooted with glee, and laughed until tears ran down their cheeks at the youngster’s loss of dignity as he scrambled up into the wild fig to retrieve his hat.
    Judging the mood finely, Craig opened his pack and brought out mug and whisky bottle. He poured a generous dram and handed the mug to the scar-faced leader.
    ‘Between brothers,’ he said.
    The guerrilla leaned his rifle against the trunk of the tree and accepted the mug. He drained it at one swallow, and blew the fumes ecstatically out of his nose and mouth. The other two took
their turn at the mug with as much gusto.
    When Craig pulled on his trousers and sat down on his pack, placing the bottle in front of him, they all laid their weapons aside and squatted in a half circle facing him.
    ‘My name is Craig Mellow,’ he said.
    ‘We will call you Kuphela,’ the leader told him, ‘for the leg walks on its own.’ And the others clapped their hands in approbation, and Craig poured each of them a whisky
to celebrate his christening.
    ‘My name is Comrade Lookout,’ the leader told him. Most of the guerrillas had adopted noms-de-guerre. ‘This is Comrade Peking.’ A tribute to his Chinese
instructors, Craig guessed. ‘And this,’ the leader indicated the youngest, ‘is Comrade Dollar.’ Craig had difficulty remaining straight-faced at this unlikely juxtaposition
of ideologies.
    ‘Comrade Lookout,’ Craig said, ‘the kanka marked