Free Sunset at Sheba by John Harris Page B

and turned to where she could see the body of the buck sprawled in the dust forty yards away.
    ‘Well, that’s not bad for the first go at it,’ she said gaily, pleased with herself.
    She whacked the horse into a shambling gallop and rattled across to where the buck lay, the cart jerking and rolling over the uneven track, the hubs screeching on the axles, small stones flying out from under the iron rims of the wheels. Gradually, with the help of the slope, the old horse moved faster and she suddenly found herself bouncing about on the seat, struggling to keep her balance.
    ‘God’s truth,’ she cried out, in sudden alarm as she realised the horse was enjoying itself also and had broken into a furious gallop; and she began heaving on the reins, sawing with them at its mouth so that it swung off the track and across the rough ground.
    She reached the buck with the horse weaving in a staggering gallop as it tried to dodge the ant heaps and the small dry karroo bushes that disappeared beneath the wheels in an explosive shower of twigs, and as she pulled up, her box bounced clean out over the tailboard and went rolling across the ground, bursting open to scatter her belongings on the grass, her underclothes flying through the air like great white birds. Then the back end of the cart hit a rock, bounced off in a whipping turn and almost rolled over.
    Polly sat up, panting and scared, as they came to a stop and stared back at her scattered clothes. ‘Lor’,’ she said aloud, ‘there’s more to this lark than meets the eye.’
    She climbed down and moved towards the buck, cautious at first, afraid and excited at the same time, and then faster as her curiosity caught hold of her. Stopping alongside the slim body, she was consumed with disappointment and despair at the sight of the staring velvety eyes. The hide, which had seemed so smooth at a distance, now seemed shabby and rough and the long frail legs ending in the sharply pointed hooves worried her that she had stilled them for ever. Then, while she was still staring, she saw the hindquarters heave in a spasmodic movement and the head lifted, the jaw working, curious formless sounds coming from the throat.
    A scream was jerked out of her and she began to run, stopping only when she realised she wasn’t being followed by the crippled buck. For a second she stared back then, her legs still unsteady, she began to collect her clothes with nervous haste, stuffing them anyhow into the box. Bundling it into the cart, she climbed on to the seat and sent the old horse shambling into the wreaths of mist, suddenly wanting to be nearer to Sammy, more than ever aware of loneliness in the vastness of the plain.
     
     
    Sammy was bending over the carcass of a buck on the floor of the valley, his knife slitting it up the belly, gutting it, until it was no longer a lovely living thing but a small faded heap of hide and flesh and bone. He looked up as she approached and saw her face.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
    ‘It just don’t seem right,’ she said, in a small voice.
    ‘What don’t?’
    ‘When they look like they do,’ she explained inadequately. ‘They’re pretty for wild animals.’
    He nodded. ‘Often think that meself,’ he said.
    He removed the liver and set it aside, then he wiped the blood from his fingers with a handful of sparse grass and stood up.
    ‘There’s another across there,’ he said.
    ‘I shot one too, Sammy,’ she said, unable to restrain the pride in her voice.
    He looked up and grinned, surprised, and her face fell again.
    ‘It’s up there,’ she went on, her voice trembling. ‘It’s not properly dead. For God’s sake, come and put it out of its misery. I’m not so sure I like shooting.’
    He straightened up in a loose, smooth movement and slung the carcass of the buck across the back of the cart. ‘You get used to it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get it.’
    He searched round quietly in the mist for a moment and stooped. When