P. C. Wren: Adventure Novels & Tales From the Foreign Legion. P. C. Wren
an hour unurged—save by the smell of pure clear water which was still a score of miles distant….
When Damocles de Warrenne awoke, he was within a few hundred yards of the nearly dry River Helnuddi, where, failing occasional pools, the traveller can always procure water by digging and patiently awaiting the slow formation of a little puddle at the bottom of the hole.
For a minute he halted. Should he dig while he had strength, or should he turn to the left and follow the river-bed until he came to a pool—or could go no farther? Perhaps he would be too weak to dig, though, by that time…. Remarkable how eager to turn to the left and get on, the camel was—considering how tired he must be—perhaps he could smell distant water or knew of a permanent pool hereabouts. Well, let that decide it….
An hour later, as the camel topped a rise in the river-bank, a considerable pool came into view, tree-shaded, heron-haunted, too incredibly beautiful and alluring for belief. Was it a mirage?…
A few minutes later, Damocles de Warrenne and his camel were drinking, and a few hours later entered the dreary featureless compound of a wretched hovel, which, to the man at least, was a palatial and magnificent asylum (no, not asylum—of all words)—refuge and home—the more so that a camel knelt chewing in the shade of the building, and a man, Abdul Ghani himself, lay slumbering in the verandah….
"You understand, then," said Dam in the vernacular, to the malodorous, hideous, avaricious Abdul who reappeared from Kot Ghazi a few days later, "you return here again, one week from to-day, bringing the things written down on this paper, from the shop of Rustomji at Kot Ghazi. Here you wait until I come. If I find there is truth in your khubbar27 of ibex you will be rewarded … Why don't I take you? Because I want to be alone. Set out now for Kot Ghazi. I may return here to-night, and I may not return for days. Do not come until one whole week has passed . . . You are certain they were ibex you saw, and within four koss of here—only yesterday ? "
Abdul swore by the hilt of his knife and the beard of the Prophet If the Sahib doubted him and found them not, Abdul the honest, truthful, innocent, and impeccable, could take the Sahib to the very spot where they had passed the night, leaving the usual signs of their presence- Strange, for ibex to come within fifty miles of civilization ? Perhaps, but who knoweth the mind of the ibex or the Will of Allah, and moreover Abdul was a poor man, the Sahib being his Father and Mother. Conclusively, why should Abdul lie, in this particular, since the Sahib was already paying him by the day?
Had his luck turned at last ? It almost looked like it—for surely that was a record head—anything from fifty to sixty inches! The head was still the property of the ibex who carried it, of course, but still, is was something even to be in sight of a magnificent pair of horns like that—after a fortnight of toil and hardship that would make a coal-miner strike for ever.
The beast, seen through field-glasses, looked a mere appanage of his great curving, tapering horns. He seemed to stand under them as a train under a railway-arch. And he was absolutely unsuspicious, quite accessible, up wind and within a hundred yards of good cover. Damocles de Warrenne heaved a sigh of pure contentment as he returned his field-glasses to their case ere he unstrapped it and laid it on the ground with his water-bottle, haversack, and coat—preparatory to the long and painful crawl and wriggle which should bring him within shot of his quarry.
First he must creep on hands and knees down a watercourse away from the ibex. Then he must go on his stomach for half a mile, behind a low ridge, to where he could turn to the right and climb above the beast, going with infinite care from rock to rock and cactus to cactus. Arrived on the plateau, he would have to steal on tip-toe to the bushes, crawl through them, and then do a last stomach-wriggle to the rock from behind which he could get a shot
He took from his haversack, and slipped on, a pair of loose gloves with leather palms, and started. It was not so bad in the watercourse, in spite of sore knees and roasted neck. The rifle was the trouble. He must either go "on three legs" or put the rifle on the ground, beneath the hand that held it, every time he moved forward. He determined to have a sling attached to it, next time, and carry it on his back, Yes, and then it would bump against rocks, or slip round with a crash, and give him away. Better carry it in the hand—but it was cruel on the wrist.
A stone fell and clattered. Dam shrank, cringed, and shut his eyes—as one expecting a heavy blow. Ah-h-h-h-h—had the beast bolted? With the slowness of an hour-hand he raised his head above the bank of the watercourse until his eye cleared the edge. No—still there. After a painful crawl that seemed to last for hours, he reached the point where the low ridge ran off at right-angles, crept behind it, and lay flat on his face, to rest and recover breath. He was soaked in perspiration from head to foot, giddy with sun and unnatural posture, very sore as to elbows and knees, out of breath, trembling—and entirely happy. The half-mile crawl, with the greater part of his body on the burning ground, and the rifle to shuffle steadily along without noise or damage, was the equivalent of a hard day's work to a strong man. At the end of it he lay gasping and sick, aching in every limb, almost blind with glare and over-exertion, weary to death—and entirely happy. Thank God he would be able to stand up in a moment and rest behind a big cactus. Then he would have a spell of foot-work for a change, and, though crouching double, would not be doing any crawling until he had crossed the plateau and reached the bushes.
The upward climb was successfully accomplished with frequent halts for breath, behind boulders. On the plateau all that was required was silence. The ibex could not see him up there. In his rubber-soled khaki-coloured shoes he could almost run, but it was a question whether a drink of cold water would not be worth more than all the ibexes in the world.
He tip-toed rapidly across the level hill-top, reached the belt of low bushes, dropped, and lay to recover breath before resuming the painful and laborious crawling part of his journey. Was it possible to tap one's tongue against one's teeth and hear the noise of it as though it were made of wood? It seemed so. Was this giddiness and dimness of vision sunstroke? What would he give to have that fly (that had followed him for hundreds of thousands of miles that morning) between his fingers?
Last lap! There was the rock, and below it must be the quarry—if it had not fled. He must keep that rock between himself and his prey and he must get to it without a sound. It would be easy enough without the rifle. Could he stick it through his belt and along his back, or trail it behind him? What nonsense! He must be getting a touch of sun. Would these stones leave marks of burns on his clothes? Surely he could smell himself singeing. Enough to explode the rifle … The big rock at last! A rest and then a peep, with infinite precaution. Dam held his breath and edged his face to the corner of the great boulder. Moving imperceptibly, he peeped … No ibex! … He was about to spring up with a hearty malediction on his luck when he perceived a peculiar projection on a large stone some distance down the hill. It moved—and Dam dropped back. It must be the top of the curve of one of the horns of the ibex and the animal must be lying down…. What to do? It might lie for hours and he himself might go to sleep. It might get up and depart at any moment without coming into the line of fire—without being seen indeed. Better continue the stalk and hope to get a standing shot, or, failing that, a running one.
It looked a nasty descent, since silence was essential—steep, slippery, and strewn with round stones. Anyhow, he could go down on his feet, which was something to be thankful for, as it was agony to put a knee or elbow to the ground. He crept on.
Surely his luck was changing, for here he was, within fifty yards of a stone behind which lay an unsuspecting ibex with a world's-record head. Hullo! a nasty little precipice! With a nastily sloping shelf at the bottom too, eight feet away—and then another little precipice and another sloping shelf at its base.
Better lay the rifle on the edge, slip over, hang by the hands, grab it with one, and then drop the intervening few inches. Rubber soles would play their part here! Damn this giddiness—touch of sun, no doubt. Damocles de Warrenne knelt on the edge of the eight-foot drop, turned round, swayed, fell, struck the sloping ledge, rolled off it, fell, struck the next sloping ledge, fell thirty feet—arousing an astounded ibex en route—and landed in a queer heap on a third