I reckon until he gets tired, then he'll rest and give us some more,

Sean answered.

They heard Waite's horse come into the yard. He said something to the

stable boy and they heard him laugh; the kitchen door slammed and there

was half a minute of suspense before they heard Waite roar. Garrick

jumped nervously.

For another ten minutes they could hear Waite and Ada talking in the

kitchen, the alternate rumble and soothing murmur. Then the tap of

Ada's feet along the passage and she came into the room. Your father

wants to see you, he's in the study. Waite stood in front of the

fireplace. His beard was powdered with dust and his forehead as

corrupted as a ploughed land with the force of his scowl.

Come in, he bellowed when Sean knocked and they filed in and stood in

front of him. Waite slapped his riding-whip against his leg and the

dust puffed out of his breeches.

Come here, he said to Garrick and took a handful of his hair. He

twisted Garrick's face up and looked at the bruise on his forehead.

Hmm, he said. He let go of Garrick's hair and it stood up in a tuft. He

threw the riding-whip on the stinkwood desk.

Come here, he said to Sean. Hold out your hands no, Palms down The skin

on both hands was broken and one knuckle was swollen and puffy looking.

HMM" he said again. He turned to the shelf beside the fireplace, took a

pipe out of the rack and filled it from the stone jar of tobacco.

You're a pair of bloody fools, he said, but I'll take a chance and start

you on five shillings a week all found.

Go and get your lunch . . . we've got work to do this afternoon.

They stared at him a moment in disbelief and then back towards the door.

Sean. Sean stopped, he knew it was too good to be true. Where did you

hit him?

All over, Pa, anywhere I could reach That's no good, Waite said. You

must go for the side of his head, here, he tapped the point of his jaw

with his pipe, and keep your fists closed tight or you'll, break every

finger in Your hands before you're much older. Yes, Pa.

The door closed softly behind him and Waite allowed himself to grin.

They've had enough book learning anyway, he said aloud and struck a

match to his pipe; when it was drawing evenly he blew out smoke.

Christ, I wish I could have watched it. That little penpusher will know

better than to tangle with my boy again Now Sean had a course along

which to race. He was born to run and Waite Courtney led him out of the

stall in which he had fretted and gave him his lead. Sean ran, unsure

of the prize, unsure of the distance; yet he ran with joy, he ran with

all his strength.

Before dawn, standing with his father and Garrick in the kitchen,

drinking coffee with hands cupped around the mug, Sean felt excitement

for each coming day. Sean, take 7-ama and N'duti with you and make sure

there are no strays in the thick stuff along the river. I'll only take

one herdboy, Pa, you'll need NIduti at the dipping tankAll right, then.

Try and meet us back at the tank before midday, we've got to push

through a thousand head today!

Sean gulped the remains of his coffee and buttoned his jacket. I'll get

going then A groom held his horse at the kitchen door. Sean slid his

rifle into the scabbard and went up into the saddle without putting his

foot into the steel; he lifted a hand and grinned at Waite, then he

swung the horse and rode across the yard. The morning was still dark

and cold.

Waite watched him from the doorway. So goddamned sure of himself,

thought Waite. Yet he had the son he had hoped for and he was proud.

What you want me to do, Garrick asked beside him.

Well, there are those heifers in the sick paddock, Waite stopped. No.

You'd better come with me, Garry.

Sean worked in the early morning when the sunlight was tinted as a stage

effect, all golden and gay, and the shadows were long and black. He

worked in the midday sun and sweated in the heat; in the rain; in the

mist that swirled down grey and damp from the plateau; in the short

African twilight, and came home in the dark. He loved every minute of

it.

He learned to know cattle. Not by name, for only the trek oxen were

named, but by their size and colour and markings, so that by running his

eye over one of the herds he knew which animals were missing.

Zama, the old cow with the crooked horn. Where is she? Nkosi, no

longer the diminutive Nkosizana, little lord. Nkosi, yesterday I took

her to the sick paddock, she has the worm in her eye.

He learned to recognize disease almost before it started.

The way a beast moved and held its head. He learned the treatment for

them. Screw worm, kerosene poured into the wound until the maggots fell

out like a shower of rice.

Ophthalmia, rinse the eye with permanganate. Anthrax and quarter-evil,

a bullet and a bonfire for the carcass.

He delivered his first calf among the acacia trees on the bank of the

Tugela; he did it alone with his sleeves rolled up above the elbows and

the soapy feel of the slime on his hands. Afterwards, while the mother

licked it and it staggered at each stroke of the tongue, Sean felt a

choking sensation in his throat.

All this was not enough to burn up his energy. He played while he

worked.

Practising his horsemanship: swinging from the saddle and running beside

his horse, up again and over the other side, standing on the saddle at

full gallop and then opening his legs and smacking down on his backside,

his feet finding the stirrups without groping.

Practising with his rifle until he could hit a running jackal at a

hundred and fifty paces, cutting the fox-terriersized body in half with

the heavy bullet.

Then there was much of Garrick's work to do also. I don't feel very

well, Sean. What's, wrong? My leg's sore, you know how it chafes if I

ride too much. Why don't you go home, then? Pa says I've got to fix

the fence round the Number Three dip tank. Garrick leaned forward on

his horse to rub his leg giving a brave little smile.

You fixed it last week, Sean protested. Yes, but the wires sort of came

loose again. There was always a strange impermanency about any repairs

that Garrick effected. Have you got the wire cutters? and Garrick

produced them with alacrity from his saddle bag.

I'll do it, said Sean.

Hell, man, thanks a lot, and then a second's hesitation. You won't tell

Pa, will you? No, you can't help it if your leg's sore, and Garrick

rode home, sneaked through to his bedroom and escaped with Jim Hawkins

into the pages of Treasure Island.

From this work came a new emotion for Sean. When the rain brought the

grass out in green and filled the shallow pans on the plateau with water

it was no longer simply a sign that the birdnesting season had begun and

that the fishing in the Baboon Stroorn would improve now it meant that

they could take cattle up from the valley, it meant that there would be

fat on the herds they drove into the sale pens at Lady-burg it meant

that another winter had ended and again the land was rich with life and

the promise of life. This new emotion extended to the cattle also. It

was a strong almost savage feeling of possession, It was in the late

afternoon. Sean was sitting on his horse among trees, looking out

across open vleiland at the small herd that was strung out before him.

They were feeding, heads down, tails flicking lazily. Between Sean and

the main body of cattle was a calf, it was three days old, still

pale-beige in colour and unsure of its legs. It was trying them out,

running clumsy circles in the short grass.

From the herd a cow lowed and the calf stopped dead and stood with its

legs splayed awkwardly under it and its ears up. Sean grinned and

picked up the reins from his horse's neck; it was time to start back for

the homestead.

At that moment he saw the lammergeyer: it had already begun its stoop at

the calf, dropping big and dark brown from the sky, wings cocked back

and its talons reaching for the strike. The wind rustled against it

with the speed of its dive.

Sean sat paralysed and watched. The eagle hit the calf and Sean heard

bone break, sharp as the snap of a dry stick, and then the calf was down