It in his fingers and Mbejane went on. There are the ashes of an old

fire there against the shurna tree and I found the ruts where wagons

climbed the bank at the same place as ours. How long ago? Mbejane

shrugged. A year perhaps. Grass has grown in the wagon tracks. Sean

sat down in his chair, he felt disturbed. He thought about it and

grinned as he realized he was jealous; there were strangers here in the

land he was coming to regard as his own, those year-old tracks gave him

a feeling of being in a crowd. Also there was the opposite feeling,

that of longing for the company of his own kind. The sneaking desire to

see a white face again. It was strange that he could resent something

and yet wish for it simultaneously. Kandhla, am I to have coffee now or

at supper tonight? Nkosi, it is done. Kandhla poured a little brown

sugar into the mug stirred it with a stick and handed it to him.

Sean held the mug in both hands, blowing to cool it, then sipping and

sighing with each mouthful. The talk of his Zulus passed back and forth

about the circle and the snuff -boxes followed it, each remark of worth

greeted with a solemn chorus of It is true, it is true, and the taking

of snuff. Small arguments jumped up and fell back again into the

leisurely stream of conversation. Sean listened to them, occasionally

joining in or contributing a story until his stomach told him it was

time to eat. Kandhla started to cook, under the critical supervision

and with the helpful suggestions of those whom idleness had made

garrulous. He had almost succeeded in grilling the carcass of a

guinea-fowl to the satisfaction of the entire company, although Mbejane

felt that he should have added a pinch more salt, when Nonga sitting

across the fire from him jumped to his feet and pointed out towards the

north. Sean shaded his eyes and looked.

For Chrissake, said Sean.

Ah! ah! ah! said his servants.

A white man rode towards them through the trees; he cantered with long

stirrups, slouched comfortably, close enough already for Sean to make

out the great ginger beard that masked the bottom half of his face. He

was a big man; the sleeves of his shirt rolled high around thick arms.

Hello, shouted Sean and went eagerly to meet him.

The rider reined in at the edge of the laager. He climbed stiffly out

of the saddle and grabbed Sean's outstretched hand. Sean felt his

finger-bones creak in the grip. Hello, man! How goes it? He spoke in

Afrikaans. His voice matched the size of his body and his eyes were on

a level with Sean's. They pumped each other's arms mercilessly,

laughing, putting sincerity into the usual inanities of greeting.

Kandhla, get out the brandy bottle, Sean called over his shoulder, then

to the Boer, Come in, you're just in time for lunch. We'll have a dram

to celebrate. Hell, it's good to see a white man again! You're on your

own, then? Yes, come in, man, sit down.

Sean poured drinks and the Boer took one up.

What's your name? he asked. Courtney, Sean Courtney. I'm Jan Paulus

Leroux, glad to meet you, meneer.

Good health, meneer, Sean answered him and they drank. Jan Paulus wiped

his whiskers on the palm of his hand and breathed out heavily, blowing

the taste of the brandy back into his mouth. That was good, he said and

held out his mug. They talked excitedly, tongues loose from loneliness,

trying to say everything and ask all the questions at once, meetings in

the bush are always like this. Meanwhile the tide was going out in the

bottle and the level dropped quickly, Tell me, where are your wagons?

Sean asked. An hour or two behind. I came ahead to find the river. How

many in your party? Sean watched his face, talking just for the sound

of it.

Ma and Pa, my little sister and my wife, which reminds me, you had

better move your wagons. What? Sean looked puzzled.

This is my outspan place, the Boer explained to him.

See, there are the marks of my fire, this is my camp.

The smile went out of Sean's voice. Look around you, Boer, there is the

whole of Africa. Take your pick, anywhere except where I am sitting.

But this is my place. Jan Paulus flushed a little. I always camp at

the same place when I return along a spoor.

The whole temper of their meeting had changed in a few seconds. Jan

Paulus stood abruptly and went to his horse. He stooped and tightened

the girth, hauling so savagely on the strap that the animal staggered

off balance.

He flung himself onto its back and looked down at Sean.

move your wagons he said, I camp here tonight. Would you like to bet on

that! Sean asked grimly.

We'll see! Jan Paulus flashed back.

We certainly shall, agreed Sean.

The Boer wheeled his horse and rode away. Sean watched his back

disappear among the trees and only then did he let his anger slip. He

rampaged through the laager working himself into a fury, pacing out

frustrated circles, stopping now and then to glare out in the direction

from which the Boer's wagons would come, but under all the external

signs of indignation was his unholy anticipation of a fight. Kandhla

brought him food, hurrying along behind him with the plate. Sean waved

him away impatiently and continued his pugnacious patrol. At last a

trek whip popped in the distance and an ox lowed faintly, to be answered

immediately by Sean's cattle. The dogs started barking and Sean crossed

to one of the wagons on the north side of the laager and leaned against

it with assumed nonchalance. The long line of wagons wound out of the

trees towards him. There were bright blobs of colour on the high box

seat of the lead wagon.

Women's dresses! Ordinarily they would have made Sean's nostrils flare

like those of a stud stallion, but now his whole attention was

concentrated on the larger of the two outriders. Ian Paulus cantered

ahead of his father, and Sean, with his fists clenched into bony hammers

at his sides, watched him come. Jan Paulus sat straight in the saddle;

he stopped his horse a dozen paces from Sean and shoved his hat onto the

back of his head with a thumb as thick and as brown as a fried sausage;

he tickled his horse a little with his spurs to make it dance and he

asked with mock surprise, What, Rooi Nek, still here?

Sean's dogs had rushed forward to meet the other pack and now they

milled about in a restrained frenzy of mutual bottom-smelling,

stiff-limbed with tension, backs abristle and legs cocking in the formal

act of urination. Why don't you go and climb a tree? You'll feel more

at home there, Sean suggested mildly. Oh! so? Jan Paulus reared in

his stirrups. He kicked loose his right foot, swung it back over his

horse's rump to dismount and Sean jumped at him. The horse skittered

nervously, throwing the Boer off balance and he clutched at the saddle.

Sean reached up, took a double handful of his ginger beard and leaned

back on it with all his weight.

Jan Paulus came over backwards with his arms windmilling, his foot

caught in the stirrup and he hung suspended like a hammock, held at one

end to the plunging horse and at the other by his chin to Sean's hands.

Sean dug his heels in, revelling in the Boer's bellows.

Galvanized into action by Sean's example, the dogs cut short the

ceremony and went at each other in a snarling snapping shambles; the fur

flew like sand in a Kalahari dust-storm.

The stirrup-leather snapped; Sean fell backwards and rolled to his feet

just in time to meet Ian Paulus's charge.

He smothered the punch that the Boer bowled overarm at him, but the

power behind it shocked him; then they were chest to chest and Sean felt

his own strength matched. They strained silently with their beards

touching and their eyes inches apart. Sean shifted his weight quickly

and tried for a fall, but smoothly as a dancer Jan Paulus met and held

him. Then it was his turn; he twisted in Sean's arms and Sean sobbed

with the effort required to stop him. Oupa Leroux joined in by driving

his horse at them, scattering the dogs, his hippo-hide sjambok hissing

as he swung it. Let it stand! you thunders, give over, hey! Enough,

let it stand! Sean shouted with pain as the lash cut across his back and

at the next stroke Jan Paulus howled as loudly. They let go of each

other and massaging their whip-weals retreated before the skinny old

white-beard on the horse.

The first of the wagons had come up now and two hundred pounds of woman,

all in one package, called out from the box seat, Why did you stop them,

Oupa? No sense in letting them kill each other. Shame on you, so you

must spoil the boys fun. Don't you remember how you loved to fight? Or

are you now so old you forget the pleasures of your youth? Leave them

alone!

Oupa. hesitated, swinging the sjamhok and looking from Sean to Jan

Paulus. Come away from there, you old busybody, his wife ordered him.

She was solid as a granite kopje, her blouse packed full of bosom and

her bare arms brown and thick as a man's. The wide brim of her bonnet

shaded her face but Sean could see it was pink and pudding-shaped, the

kind of face that smiles more easily than it frowns. There were two

girls on the seat beside her but there was no time to look at them. Oupa

had pulled his horse out of the way and Jan Paulus was moving down on

him. Sean went up on his toes, crouching a little, preoccupied with the

taste he had just had of the other's strength, watching Jan Paulus close