The Black Trail Read online

  Lavinia Woodstock also appeared in an outfit that seemed more suited to riding along fashionable Fifth Avenue in New York, or Rotten Row in London’s Hyde Park, rather than through the Arizona Territory in the baking heat of summer. She kept on the hat with the long veil, making it impossible for Crow to see her face, though he had several times heard her harsh, aristocratic English voice berating some of the Negroes. But her voice softened and became submissive when talking to the Chief.

  Beneath the veil was a tight-bodiced dress in a light purple silk. Extremely tight across the bosom. The waist nipped in to the span of a man’s two hands. The skirt of the same color was split clean down the middle so that she could ride astride, which she did with great dash and verve. On her feet was a pair of soft leather boots with ornate silver spurs with vicious rowels.

  During their first two days of riding, Crow said nothing to the woman and she said nothing to him, though he constantly had the feeling that she was studying him through the veil.

  Most of the time Crow did what he liked best. Rode alone. Out front of the cavalcade, breaking the trail, and keeping his eyes open for Indian sign. There was plenty of it. Mescalero. A dozen times each day he saw their smoke, and caught the flashes of mirror signaling from the red mountains all around them. And on one occasion they were passing slowly along the bottom of a wide ravine, in search of some mountain lions, when he glanced up to the left, sensing danger, and saw two young warriors, cotton-shirted with patterned head-bands holding back the long hair, sitting astride ponies and looking down at the train. As soon as they realized they had been spotted by Crow they slowly turned their ponies and heeled them forwards until they were out of sight over the rim of the canyon.

  Crow learned something of the African nations from the talkative Mick as they sat together on the second evening. The slaves all huddled together near the supply wagons, while Mavulamanzi and his mistress dined together in his own transport. The young Negro was well-educated and eager to share his knowledge with the white man whom he so obviously admired.

  Crow had known many members of different Indian tribes and had learned details of their cultures that few white men ever came close to. But what the young black told him about the life of the Zulu tribes of far-away Africa was scarcely believable.

  Cetewayo had been the greatest of their chiefs and the Zulus were still bitterly in conflict against the British. Mikalawayo told Crow earnestly that he hoped that in the next few years they would be able to drive the white man from the hunting grounds for ever. It was so like the cries of the Indians throughout the Americas. Primitive peoples with no concept of the numbers of their oppressors. No idea that for every white man they managed to kill there would be ten waiting to take his place.

  ‘We will one day take them when there are more of us than them. Perhaps against a hill where they can no longer run from us. Or in one of their stations where their priests live. There is such a place at what is called Rorke’s Drift, near where I was born. There we could take them as flies trapped in a mealie jar.’

  The name meant nothing to Crow. He was more interested in the way that the Zulus fought and how their soldiers were trained. Mick told him as they sat by the glowing embers of the small fire of the divisions of fighting men, ranked by age. These impis each had their commander or induna, who was sometimes chosen for his fighting skill and sometimes because he was a relation of the chief.

  All things were in the power of the chief. Only their shamans, or witch-doctors, were most feared. These creatures claimed they could smell out evil spirits. The abaThakathi, or wicked demons, inhabited the bodies of men and women and the witch-doctors could scent them. Pointing them out so that they were taken for execution by impaling on sharpened stakes while their lands and cattle were confiscated by the chief.

  Many chiefs abused their powers, but their people never questioned their authority and obeyed their orders quite blindly.

  It is sometimes death even to cough or sneeze in the presence of the great chiefs,’ said Mick, looking slightly embarrassed, as if his own contact with the white men had made him realize that such customs were not universally acceptable. ‘He will point and the one who has insulted him and caused him to…to lose face…is taken and most swiftly killed.’

  ‘Why doesn’t someone just up and stab such bloody rulers in the throat while they sleep?’ asked Crow, leaning back on his blanket and listening to the howling of the coyotes, far off in the blackness. Catching the sound of a cougar, barking to his mate. Mavulamanzi had said he wished to hunt the sleek mountain lions and Crow made a mental note of the direction of the noise.

  ‘Kill a chief?’ ruminated the young Negro. ‘It has been done, Mister Crow. By poisoning. Or by murder. Clubbing. Stabbing. But it is always done by others of the family so that they might advance their own claim to position and traditional powers of the chief.’

  The white man shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t do in America, Mick. Wouldn’t at all. Here all our leaders are put into power by their fellows. Sometimes they’re god-damned rotten apples, but ifn they are we can just have them booted out and get someone better.’

  ‘I know this. I have studied such things.’

  There was a longish silence between the two men, broken by a strangled cry that was almost a scream from the wagon of Mavulamanzi, followed by grunting and muffled laughter.

  Mikalawayo looked down at his feet. Taking off his yellow hat and turning it round in his hands, speaking quietly, not lifting his eyes to the white man. ‘He is my own chief and I must obey him. That is the way. But you, Mister Crow, must think him a rogue and a villain for some of his ways. And me a famous coward for following him as I do.’

  Crow shook his head, pitching his voice as low as the black’s. He didn’t really give a damn about what the whole lot of them did or thought, but he figured he ought to say something. Conscious of how trite it sounded. ‘Guess you have to do whatever you have to, Mick.’

  But it seemed to reassure the little man and he grinned as if Crow had lifted a great weight from his mind.

  A little after noon Crow got a good idea of how the numbers of Mavulamanzi’s party had been shrinking since their arrival in America.

  They had ridden on deeper into the maze of ravines that dissected that part of Arizona Territory. Crow had felt obliged to point out to his employer that he felt they were heading into danger with the Mescalero Apaches all around them.

  Mavulamanzi had looked down at him from the back of the towering white stallion, sweat beading his huge black moon of a face.

  ‘Danger, Crow. Danger? I vow that the word has no meaning to me.’

  It was the typical statement of a rich and powerful braggart. The kind of thing that Crow had heard a lot of times before. Like the owner of the railroad who sat back in Boston while his coolies died like flies. Or the General, bald and short of breath and red-faced, sitting in a deep chair in Virginia while the wretched blue-bellies sweated and lost their lives in nameless arroyos more than a thousand miles away.

  ‘It could have a meaning if you find yourself staked out naked with a handful of sniggering Apache squaws working on you with their needles and fire.’

  ‘Are you afraid, Crow?’

  ‘Man says he’s not afraid is either crazy…’

  ‘Crazy!’

  ‘Or he’s dead.’

  The Zulu laughed, calling out something to his men who also bellowed their merriment. Crow noticed that the woman sat her own horse, still and impassive. And he wondered what lay beneath the still waters.

  Mavulamanzi virtually ignored the warning, heeling his horse onwards to take the lead, leaving Crow eating dust and wondering whether it was worth it.

  They tracked down the lion that afternoon. Crow had seen spoor and the Negro had sent off one of his own men after the animal. Armed with a round shield of rawhide, and carrying a short stabbing spear in his right hand. Barefooted and naked to the waist.

  That lance won’t do much against a full-grow
n cougar,’ Crow said to Mikalawayo, who was still sticking to his derby, despite the scorching heat of the desert.

  ‘You do not know, Mister Crow.’

  ‘Just Crow. Not Mister Crow.’

  ‘I am sorry. Among my people it is the way for the young men to go out alone and prove their…manhood? That’s the word?’ Crow nodded. Their manhood by arming themselves only with an assegai and killing a lion. Our lions, Mi…Crow, are much larger than yours and are every part as ferocious as them.’

  ‘He’s going to try and kill it?’

  ‘No!’ Mikalawayo was shocked. ‘He will track it and then it will be driven by the others towards our Chief Mavulamanzi who will then kill it.’

  ‘With a spear?’

  The young man sniffed. ‘Our Chief Mavulamanzi had once done such feats. But the ways of the Englishmen and their red faces have weaked…I mean, weakened him. He will now use those guns he wears.’

  Crow had killed mountain lions before.

  But he’d never taken part in such a bizarre hunt as that one in the summer of seventy-seven.

  All of the fifteen black slaves were employed as beaters, circling round and driving the animal towards their chief. Ululating in a strange, throaty crying, beating their spear-butts on their shields. While Mavulamanzi waited in the shade of the big wagon, swigging brandy from a bottle of green glass. His mistress sat on the earth at his side, her legs curled under her, face a blur behind the impenetrable veil.

  Mick and Crow stood together by the main supply wagon, not speaking. The lean white man checking his weapons while they waited. Hearing the sounds of the hunt coming closer.

  Crow glanced upwards into the bright blue, seeing a group of jagged dots, circling, riding a thermal of hot air. Buzzards, seeing the activity below them, and scenting the possibility of food. Their reward was to be even better than they could have imagined.

  ‘They come,’ said the giant Zulu, dropping his bottle to the dirt where it shattered into glittering shards of glass.

  ‘He’s drunk’s a skunk,’ said Crow, flicking the thong from the hammers of the Purdey, freeing it ready for use. Seeing how Mavulamanzi lurched sideways as he moved to stand in the center of the ravine. It was about eighty feet across at its widest. The Zulu had drawn the pair of matched pistols and was squinting towards the end of the canyon where the shouting came from.

  Crow noticed that Lavinia Woodstock was also moving. Stepping away from the wagon to position herself close behind and slightly to the side of the chief. She wore a silver-plated thirty-two caliber Colt New Line pistol in a special holster on a wide leather strap running over her left shoulder.

  As she stood about fifteen paces in front of Crow, he noticed that her long fingers were constantly playing with the walnut butt of the hand-gun. And that her eyes were fixed on the back of Mavulamanzi and not on the end of the canyon.

  Crow had always been quicker than most when it came to the adding of two and two and he began to walk forwards between the sheer walls of rock. He could hear the massive chief crooning to himself as he waved his Peacemakers around.

  The noise of the beaters was getting closer and he twice heard the sound of the cougar snarling its defiance at the hunters. It would not be long.

  He stopped a half-pace behind the woman, who had stiffened as she heard him approaching, her hand falling from the thirty-two to her side. Crow pitched his voice so low that it would have been inaudible five steps off. Glancing round to make sure that young Mikalawayo wasn’t near enough to overhear him.

  ‘No concern of mine, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘You want to kill him I don’t greatly object. But I sure as Hell mind ifn you do it now. Those blacks’d tear us both apart if their chief was murdered. Both of us.’

  She said nothing and didn’t show the least sign that she’d heard him. But he knew that she had, and that was enough.

  The animal exploded into their vision like a great golden tornado, all snapping jaws and spitting anger, kicking up a dervish of dust about itself. Its speed was electrifying and Crow began a move to draw his scatter-gun, checking himself just in time.

  Mavulamanzi gave a throaty yelp of delight and began to spray lead from both guns. Firing eight or nine shots, none of them coming even close to the cougar. The animal suddenly checked its leaping and stood, stiff-legged, hackles up, the green-yellow light gleaming from its eyes. Head ranging backwards and forwards as it sought an avenue of escape. But the gaggle of slaves were now in sight, waving their spears and shields, calling out to encourage each other as they advanced.

  The chief fired twice more, one of the bullets hissing off into the distance as it tore splinters of red rock from the cliff ten paces to the left. The other one showering the mountain lion with sand as it dug into the earth three paces in front of it.

  The cougar bared its teeth and turned away from them, charging in at the group of Zulus that blocked its retreat. One of them was a little in advance of the others and it attacked him with a scream of hatred. Leaping at his throat while he tried to fend it off with the cowhide shield.

  ‘Why doesn’t the stupid son of a bitch use that little spear?’ asked Crow.

  Mikalawayo shook his head. ‘He must not. The animal should be killed by the chief only. Unless he has given orders to another.’

  ‘Jesus,’ sighed Crow.

  The animal was too fast and too deadly for the terrified black. He pushed it away from himself with the shield, but even as it was falling the cougar managed to twist its body and rake at the man’s head with its front paws. The armored claws ripped away the side of the Zulu’s face and he dropped the shield and spear, screaming like a gelded horse.

  Before his fellows could rush forward to try and beat the creature off him, the mountain lion had spun around and struck twice more, bringing up the strong hind legs and ripping out the Negro’s belly. Spilling his intestines in the hot sand, fatally wounding him.

  Mavulamanzi fired once more. And again. Then aimed the pistols at the cougar as it turned towards him, coming bounding across the ravine. Crow drew the shotgun but felt the touch of Mick’s hand on his arm. ‘If he lives he will have you butchered,’ the young Negro warned.

  So he held his fire, keeping the Purdey ready, both hammers cocked.

  Mavulamanzi aimed at the bounding animal, standing unmoving against its charge. Leveling both pistols. Crow could hear the muted groans of the dying Negro in the background and the pattering of the cougar’s feet Waiting for the roar of the twin Peacemakers.

  The giant Zulu chief squeezed both triggers simultaneously. Both hammers clicking down on fired cartridges with a dull metallic sound.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ exclaimed Mick, hands flying up to cover his mouth.

  Mavulamanzi had no time to run or reload. He threw both guns at the animal, one of them striking it on the side of the muzzle. Slightly deflecting its charge, and undoubtedly saving his life. Even if only for a few seconds.

  He was able to grapple with the beast as it reared up at him, holding it squeezed close against himself with his great strength. It was one of the most impressive demonstrations of raw power that Crow had ever seen, but he knew that even the Zulu would not be able to hold the mountain lion for very long. He took a step forward, then checked himself, seeing that Lavinia Woodstock had now drawn her small pistol, holding it loosely against her leg.

  The animal was fighting in almost total silence, and all of the watching Negroes had also become quiet. The shout from Mavulamanzi was loud, and its tone quite unmistakable. Crow knew nothing of the Zulu language, but a cry for help carried the same tones in any tongue.

  ‘He asks for us to…’

  ‘I know,’ Crow interrupted, stepping forwards away from Mikalawayo, towards the battling chief, seeing Lavinia also move closer to the struggle.

  ‘Keep back, Ma’am,’ called Crow, trying to get in a clear shot at the cougar, but hesitating at the enormous risk of hitting the black, so closely were they entangled.

  There wa
s a cry of pain from the chief, and for a moment Crow saw crimson against the ebony skin. He stood in close, the twin barrels of the scatter-gun gaping at the fight, unable to fire.

  When the decision was taken from his hands.

  There was the pettish bark of the thirty-two Colt and a burst of powder smoke. An eldritch shriek from the cougar as it bounded away from Mavulamanzi, snapping at its flanks where a flower of blood had blossomed among the dust on its golden fur.

  The Zulu rolled clear, holding his ribs where his elegant jacket had been torn to shreds by the claws of the mountain lion. The woman stood holding the pistol, as if she was considering another shot, when Crow leveled the Purdey and fired. Just the one barrel, the ten-gauge bucking in his wrist. The heavy charge knocked the animal kicking on its side, its head nearly severed from its shoulders. Any further movement from it was purely the nerves closing down all communications and Crow turned away from it, reloading the shotgun from habit Watching as the black chief was tended by his followers and helped to his wagon. Ignoring both Crow and the woman as he moaned in pain, blood dripping freely from his wounds, puddling the dust into mud.

  ‘Good shot, Ma’am,’ Crow said to Lavinia Woodstock as she holstered her Colt.

  ‘Possibly, Crow. Possibly.’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘In what way do you mean, pray?’

  ‘Could have hit Mavulamanzi instead of the animal.’

  She turned and looked at him and he saw the glittering of her eyes through the veil. But he couldn’t see her mouth and the expression in her voice told him absolutely nothing.

  ‘Yes, Crow. I could have shot Mavulamanzi rather than the animal. Lucky, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?’

  There wasn’t any answer to that.

  Chapter Six

  Mavulamanzi didn’t appear until the sun had finally disappeared over the hills to the west. The mangled corpse of the slave lay where he had fallen, only a few paces from the torn body of the cougar. The ten-gauge shot had ripped it apart so comprehensively that it was of no use as a trophy.