"They will never learn to get out of the way if you slow down every time," he said sharply. "Keep going."

As they drew nearer Joseph could see the flat peasant faces of the four Annamese boys clearly; they were wide-eyed with apprehension, but obviously determined to remain rooted to the spot until the last moment. Jacques Devraux's face was visible in the rearview mirror and his cold expression did not flicker as he held his hand firmly on the blaring horn.

When the large chromium headlamps of the Citroen were only five feet from them, the first boy flung himself into the roadside ditch and let out a yell of triumph as he tumbled into the filthy water. Two of the others stumbled but managed to leap awkwardly over the offside fender of the car. The fourth boy, however, slipped and fell to his knees and was only beginning to scramble upright again when the fender caught his chest with a thud that shook the vehicle. His arms and legs flew wide as he cart wheeled over the hood and fell in a motionless heap in the dusty road behind them.

Ngo Van Loc started to slow the car, but to the surprise of the Americans Jacques Devraux motioned him to keep driving. The Frenchman studied the scene behind them in the rearview mirror for a second or two but did not turn his head. Joseph and the other occupants in the landaulet twisted in their seats and watched the rest of the villagers rush to surround the fallen boy. The baggage truck that was following slowed as the crowd in the road thickened, then stopped, unable to pa.s.s.

"Won't you turn back, Monsieur Devraux, to see at least if he's alive?" asked Nathaniel Sherman in a quiet voice.

"There is really no need to inconvenience yourself, senator," replied Devraux calmly. "I a.s.sure you this is a very common occurrence here."

"But shouldn't the accident be reported to your police?"

"There is no need. The most a French judge will fine you is the cost of the funeral expenses- twenty-five piastres if in fact the boy has died. And the judge will only do that if he really has to. Repeated warnings are given to the peasants to stay away from pa.s.sing traffic. They ignore these warnings completely." He glanced briefly in the mirror again. "The baggage truck driver will take care of it. He is Annamese."

The Frenchman spoke the final words in a tone that suggested he would find it disagreeable to discuss the subject further, and the senator lapsed into silence. Joseph glanced at Ngo Van Loc, but although his knuckles were white on the steering wheel he made no comment, and n.o.body else spoke for the rest of the journey.

9.

"You will never argue with me again in front of clients, French or foreign, is that clear?" Jacques Devraux held himself ramrod straight on the back of his stocky saddle pony and delivered his order to his son in a vehement undertone. "Your behavior was unpardonable! It's astonishing to me that a boy whose father and grandfather have both been soldiers before him should have such a poorly developed sense of loyalty and duty."

Paul bit his lip as he jogged at his father's shoulder along a trail that wound through fringes of jungle beside the La Nga River. His face had grown pale at the harshness of the rebuke and he drew a long breath before replying. "You can't expect me to agree with you on every single thing, Papa," he said, keeping his voice low so that it did not carry to Senator Sherman and his sons, who were strung out in single file on their ponies behind them. "But that doesn't mean I'm disloyal to you."

"Perhaps you will learn the meaning of obedience and respect at St. Cyr. I hope so. If you don't, you won't remain an officer cadet for long." Devraux didn't look at his son as he spoke, but stared straight ahead along the track, his face set in harsh lines. "After the Americans leave I must travel to Canton again. You will have to conduct on your own the party of French officials who want to shoot muntjac. I don't wish to hear from them on my return that you've been airing the kind of sentiments I heard from you today."

Paul rode without speaking for a minute or two, listening absently to the strident cries of unseen birds in the tangled roof of the tropical forest. He sensed that his father was silently demanding some expression of regret, but whenever he glanced at his grim, unsmiling face he found it impossible to summon an apology to his lips. "Are you going on Surete General business?" he asked at last in a low voice after glancing around again to see if they could be overheard. "Is it to do with the bomb that was thrown at the governor general?"

"You know I can't discuss my work for the Surete with you," replied his father brusquely. Then he turned his head and eyed his son coldly. "But perhaps holding the views you do makes you feel no action should be taken against the enemies of France."

A faint flush rose to the French boy's face. "I'm as proud of our country as you are, Papa," he said softly. "But if we did things differently here there wouldn't be any need for resistance movements. And the Surete wouldn't need to spy on anybody."

"Life is not that simple," replied the older man sarcastically. "There are outside forces in Russia and China trying to stir up trouble for us here." Then he paused and looked more thoughtfully at his son for a moment. "But don't think there's any pleasure or satisfaction in such work, Paul. Many hours are wasted watching and waiting. And often there's nothing to show for it at the end. I do it from a sense of duty - for my country. For myself I would much rather be hunting - or even back in the army again."

Paul detected a faint note of weariness in his father's voice and for a fleeting instant his mask of grim detachment had seemed to soften. "I'm sorry, Papa," he said quickly. "It wasn't that clever of me."

Jacques Devraux continued to ride straight-backed in his saddle without acknowledging the grudging apology, and Paul was beginning to wish he had left it unsaid when his father spoke again in a softer tone. "Your mother's death caused me great pain, Paul, you already know that. But having his only son turn against him is painful for a man too."

The French boy looked up sharply at his father, but the familiar expressionless mask had already settled back on his face. "You'd better ride back now and check the baggage carts," he said sharply. "Make sure the Moi haven't lost anything. And stay in the rear till we get to the camp."

Joseph Sherman saw Paul turn his pony and begin trotting back towards him. He had been riding in front of Chuck and his father, watching with admiration the erect, narrow-backed figure of Jacques Devraux jogging easily at the head of the column; the fierce-eyed Frenchman had quickly made a deep impression on Joseph's fifteen-year-old mind and he was trying to hold his own shoulders high and square in the same fashion. The Frenchman's dark aquiline features and unsmiling silences made him think of history-book pictures he'd seen of the warrior heroes of ancient Greece and Rome, and the dismay h had felt at first when their car had struck the Annamese villager had increased his sense of awe.

He had forgotten the incident, however, the moment they entered the jungle for the first time, riding on the little saddle ponies which Devraux's Mol bearers had brought to the road from the hunting camp. One moment they had been crossing a burning glade of shoulder-high gra.s.s in the full glare of the sun and the next they descended abruptly into a dark, silent, mysterious world where the air was cool and moist, the earth soft and spongy underfoot, and dazzling orchids blazed suddenly among the deep green undergrowth. The change had been so abrupt that Joseph had been moved to speak only in hushed whispers of the thrilling sights and sounds that unfolded all around them. They had disturbed alligators in the shallows of the river, listened to unseen deer bark in the riverside thickets, and a herd of wild pigs had fled snuffling and grunting from a stagnant pool at their approach. He and Chuck vied to identify the exotic birds they saw: ibis, king- fishers, herons, white pheasants arid once a peac.o.c.k darted frantically across their path. A wide grin of delight had become a permanent fixture on his face, and Paul smiled at him in return as he cantered back to check the ox carts.

"Regarde, Joseph." said the French boy suddenly reining in his pony beside him and pointing to the far edge of the plain that they were crossing. "Do you see the elephants?"

Joseph turned in his saddle in time to see a score of shuffling gray humps slip silently into the distant trees. "Those are the first wild elephants I've ever seen in my life," he whispered reverently, and his grin of delight spread from ear to ear.

He was still grinning when they rode into the camp which had been built by the Moi in a bend of the Slow-flowing river. Four huts of palm thatch laid over jointed poles had been constructed, arid cooking and storage tents were pitched nearby. Immediately the little mountain tribesmen, who seemed to have stepped straight out of the sepia photographs in his history book, began unloading the baggage, and Joseph saw them take their crossbows and arrows from the carts and carry them to their own huts a hundred yards away along the riverbank. "Moi," he knew from his reading, was an Annamese term derived from the Chinese word for "savage," and looking at the dark-skinned, low-browed men, he could see they were of a different racial stock from the Annamese; they wore only breechclouts that left their haunches naked and they grinned and chattered animatedly in their own language as they moved quickly about their work. Some of them had plaited sc.r.a.ps of cloth in their long black hair and all wore beads around their necks.

The women who waited to greet them outside their huts wore bracelets of tin on their wrists and ankles, but otherwise their only other garment was a long dark cloth wrapped round the hips, which left their jutting, dark-nippled b.r.e.a.s.t.s uncovered. Seeing Joseph staring at the women, Paul walked over to him and put an arm around his shoulder. "You like our Moi women then, young Joseph, do you?" he asked, grinning broadly.

The American boy colored and laughed. "They're okay, I guess."

"They're a branch of the Rhade tribe but a bit ancient, wouldn't you say, for your youthful tastes? 'The chief in the next village has a dozen wives and a lot of juicy young daughters who would better suit a pa.s.sionate young man like you." He slapped Joseph on the back and laughed again.. Then he nodded towards the senator and Chuck who were helping his father and Ngo Van Loc supervise the unloading of supplies. "Everyone else is busy at the moment, so why don't we try to get something fresh for the pot. Nice little muntjac for supper, say." He winked broadly. "And if we have time I'll show you the Moi village, too."

Joseph looked doubtfully towards his father. "Hadn't we better ask?"

"Fetch your rifle. I'll go and check if it's okay."

He ran across to talk to the senator and his father while Joseph collected hi light Winchester carbine from the hut he was to share with his brother. A moment later the French boy returned carrying a Mauser .350 slung carelessly over his shoulder. "It's all right. I've promised we'll bring back a young hog deer." He leaned close to Joseph and whispered, "That means we've got to shoot two, okay?"

Two of the Moi carrying short poles followed them to a dugout canoe moored by the camp, and they paddled across the river to the plain on the other side. When they lauded Paul crept forward to peer out into the gra.s.sland from behind a tree. Then he waved Joseph forward. "See over there, look! There are about a dozen deer grazing."

The late afternoon sun was beginning t lose its heat, but under its fading glare the waving gra.s.s of the plain still shimmered in a gray-green haze and Joseph's unpracticed eye could detect no movement.

'There! Half a mile away; the red blotches close to the trees." Paul turned Joseph's head gently in both hands until he saw the deer. "And we're in luck, the wind's blowing straight towards us. We'll just walk quietly down behind the tree cover and bag two of those beauties. One for us, and one for the chiefs daughters, eh?" He chuckled quietly and set off towards the feeding animals.

When they were only fifty yards from the herd the French boy came back to Joseph and raised a mischievous eyebrow. "Have you ever He nodded and winked exaggeratedly. ". . . before, Joseph? Have you?"

The American boy looked away, his cheeks burning suddenly.

"I thought not." Paul laughed and took his arm confidentially. "You know, at your age I had. . . well, never mind. Let's shoot the muntjac first He led them to within thirty yards of the unsuspecting deer, then motioned for Joseph to sit down on the ground at the edge of the plain. He squatted beside him and demonstrated how to prop his elbows on his knees to steady the rifle. "Take the little fawn nearest to us," he whispered, pointing to one of the young.

Joseph fingered his rifle and gazed at the pretty little muntjac. Its red flanks were flecked with white, and it stood broadside on to him, a perfect target.

"Go on, take aim," urged the French boy.

But Joseph didn't raise his rifle. "You shoot, Paul. I might miss and scare them," he said softly, his cheeks coloring again with embarra.s.sment.

The French boy gave a grunt of exasperation and fired almost casual1 from a standing position. The fawn bounded forward instantly in a reflex action, then fell dead in the gra.s.s. He shot a larger doe on the run as the little herd began dashing for cover, and the Moi bearers ran out into the plain to hoist the two dead animals on their shoulder poles. Grinning broadly the French boy led the way into the forest, and for a quarter of an hour they threaded through the trees following a narrow trail.

The village when they reached it consisted of three dozen palm-thatched huts raised on poles ten feet above the ground. In the shade beneath them pigs, dogs, domestic fowls, horses and even a few ancient buffalos swarmed in a stinking congregation. Moi children who had heard the noise of their approach came running helter-skelter to surround them and began shouting excitedly when they saw the dead deer. Paul pulled several cubes of sugar from his pocket and tossed them among the children, and they squealed and fought among themselves, pa.s.sing the prizes eventually from hand to hand.

"Ah, at last! Here comes the pholy." The French boy nudged Joseph as a tall, white-haired Moi who was obviously the village chieftain slowly descended the stepped tree trunk that led from his hut to the ground. Paul gestured towards the biggest muntjac suspended from the carrying pole and made an elaborate gesture of donation.

The old man, who wore a cloth bow in his long gray hair, looked at the French boy for a moment, then his weather-beaten face cracked in a slow smile and he raised his arm above his head. From inside the hut behind him came the sudden sound of gongs and drums being beaten and immediately a bare-breasted woman appeared in the doorway at the top of the stepped log, holding aloft a tall earthenware jar.

A sigh of satisfaction escaped the French boy's lips. "That's the ternum," he whispered.

"The what?"

"Ternum - the Mois' own special rice alcohol. Fermented for three years - very potent. Think you can take it?"

"I don't know."

"For a man who can catch a gibbon in a Ming vase it will be child's play." The French boy laughed loudly and followed the pholy up the log staircase into the gloomy interior of the long hut.

The moment Joseph stepped through the doorway he began coughing uncontrollably. Several fires were burning inside and their smoke stung his throat and eyes. The floor was made of bamboo strips laid haphazardly side by side, and he staggered several times as his feet slipped between the round poles. Maize had been hung to dry beneath the thatch, and he knocked his head against a bunch as he straightened up, bringing a shower of husks and crawling insects cascading down upon himself.

By the light of the fires he could see Paul already sitting cross-legged on a buffalo skin by the pholy, and he sank gratefully down on the other side of him. He heard the French boy whispering urgently, then the chief grunted and plunged a long hollow bamboo rod into the ternum jar and drank a deep draught. When he'd finished he wiped his mouth and pa.s.sed the jar to Joseph. The American boy hesitated, then sucked hard on the bamboo. The harshness of the alcohol took his breath away and made him choke again, and Paul collapsed in a fit of laughter as he expelled half of it in a further bout of coughing.

It took several minutes for Joseph to recover his composure and only then was he able to see by the light of the fires that the rear of the communal hut was divided up into tiny stall-like compartments for the pholy's wives and daughters. They were all empty, but rows of Moi females were seated along the other walls, banging the gongs and drums. All were naked to the waist, and their bodies quivered and trembled rhythmically to the beat of their instruments. The pholy pa.s.sed the rice alcohol again, and this time Joseph gritted his teeth as the spirit burned a fiery track into his stomach. His eyes watered so fiercely that tears ran down his cheeks, but he fought down the choking sensation and his self- esteem soared.

They continued drinking from the jar in turn, but gradually the effects of the smoke, the alcohol and the clamor of the gongs made his senses swim. Only dimly, when the jar began to return to him more rapidly, did he realize he had been left alone with the mute pholy, and by then the women had begun striking their gongs and drums in a faster rhythm. One of them, her naked upper body glowing like bronze in the flickering firelight, advanced and leaned down beside him to replenish the alcohol jar. Her bare flesh came close enough to his face for him to inhale its pungent female odor and he peered around desperately into the gloom for some sign of his French companion. He thought he heard him chuckle from the shadows once, but his eyes could not penetrate the gloom.

When the woman standing over him returned to her place, Joseph rose to his feet and made hi-s way unsteadily towards the back of the hut, calling Paul by name. But no response came from the darkness, and after swaying precariously back and forth for a minute or two, his feet slipped on the twisting bamboo rods and he fell to his knees. He felt unseen hands help him into one of the part.i.tioned stalls and there he stretched out and closed his stinging eyes. His head was swimming and he began to drift into a drunken doze but the sense of a new presence in the stall made him open his eyes again. In the reflected light of the lire he saw the silhouette of an entirely naked Moi female kneeling at his side, and as he watched, her hands began working rhythmically at some unseen task. Was she, he wondered, trying to make another fire in the fashion of the ancients? He heard the tin bracelets jangling on her wrists and from time to time she bent her head close over her lists as though blowing on reluctant embers; but it was some time before he realized that he, too, was naked, and that the hands of the Moi girl were stroking and chafing his own body.

He followed all her movements with dreamlike detachment; an all engulfing numbness seemed to have removed every trace of feeling from him. All the time her face remained in shadow, the att.i.tude of her head intent and concentrated; no eyes ever sought his face. Only gradually did he become conscious of a commotion in the darkness beside him. Then to his astonishment he heard the voice of the French boy, grunting like an animal in distress. A moment later he heard his laugh, a low guttural sound released from deep in the throat.

"ca Va, Joseph, heh? ca marche bien?" The words spoken softly close to the American boy's ear made him start. He heard what sounded like a stifled cry of pain from a shriller voice; then the commotion beside him resumed once more.

Joseph tried to rise, but the female crouching over him leaned closer and shifted her body clumsily onto his. It was then that he sensed her extreme youth; the twin globes of her dark b.r.e.a.s.t.s with their sharp, neat points were hard and solid, her skin, a deep indigo in the near-blackness, was velvet-smooth, entirely without hair. To the feral reek of buffalo, horse and fowl and the sour remains of human nourishment was added suddenly a smoky, faintly ammoniac odor of female flesh, entirely new to him. The bracelets on her ankles and wrists danced arid rattled again more urgently and her pungent breath began blowing softly against his face as she spread her thighs and forced her smooth dark belly downward again his own.

The sublime memory of that first descent into the moist, mossy darkness of the jungle earlier in the day blazed again suddenly in his mind's eye for a moment, but then his numbness left him in a furious rush and a piercing surge of purity and sweetness flashed through the rank darkness of the hut. He cried aloud in agitation and tried to twist free, but the st.u.r.dy thighs of the anonymous Moi girl held him fast. Only when his struggling became more violent did she fall from him, and then with frantic hands he untangled himself from her and rose to crouch against the wall, his eyes closed, his breath rasping in his throat.

From the darkness beside him came a sudden wild shout of laughter. It rose and fell in time with the drums and gongs which continued to fill the hut with their relentless clamor. After a moment, Joseph Sherman, his fifteen-year-old heart pumping with a sudden new elation, began laughing uproariously too.

10.

"Okay, gentlemen, today we hunt buffalo!" Senator Nathaniel Sherman stood in the middle of the camp clearing, his booted feet astride, clutching a hand-crafted Purdey .450 double-barreled rifle in one fist. He had jammed a solar topee squarely on his head and a broad confident grin creased his face. "This beauty here or its .375 twin will be firing hard-nosed bullets at any Annamese buffalo who comes within sniffing range of the Sherman family." He slapped his rifle b.u.t.t against his leather boot and nodded to Chuck Sherman, who held a similar rifle easily in the crook of his arm. "And in the rare event that I should miss, young Mister Deadeye here will be raring to let fly with a deadly Holland and Holland cannon of the same caliber. Right, Chuck?"

His elder son grinned easily back at him. "Sure thing, Dad."

"In the unlikely event of us both firing wide - and that's about a million-to-one chance, I'd say - young Joseph here with his Winchester peashooter will be a big favorite to pick off the stragglers. Right, young Joey?"

Joseph looked up with a start and nodded vigorously although he hadn't heard a word his father had said. He was standing on the edge of the group that included Flavia Sherman, Jacques and Paul Devraux and half-a-dozen Moi trackers, but his mind was only half on the hunt to come. Since waking that morning his thoughts had returned constantly to the encounter with the unknown Moi girl, and every time he recalled what had happened he felt a surge of exhilaration course through him. The fetid stench of the darkened hut, the mind-dizzying rice alcohol, even Paul's mocking laughter had all fused into a delicious composite memory now. He had really done it! How many young fellows of fifteen in Charles County, Virginia, could say that? Whenever he thought of that first blind delicious sensation, as he had a hundred times that morning, he had to close his eyes. It had hardly seemed possible before: but now he knew for sure. He'd done it. And he could do it again!

is, if he's got over his 'ternum' sickness."

The ripple of laughter that greeted his father's jocular reference to the previous night's adventure broke into his train of thought. He looked up guiltily to find his mother, his brother and Paul smiling broadly at him. There had been plenty of leg-pulling already about his return to the camp the previous evening slightly the worse for wear from the ternum. Paul had laughingly explained that they had taken one small pull only at the bamboo rod, purely out of courtesy to the Moi chief, but it had gone straight to Joseph's head. He had distracted attention from the incident by crediting Joseph with the killing of the fawn and therefore the capture of the expedition's first prize, since the senator had decided they should collect a group of muntjac. Joseph himself had attracted more laughter by excusing himself before dinner and going directly to His cot; there he had fallen immediately into a deep, peaceful sleep that lasted until the dawn cries of the jungle birds roused him, and when he rose he had felt clear-headed and exultant.

Jacques Devraux had ridden out to the road before it was light with a spare horse to meet the car that brought Flavia Sherman from Saigon. They had arrived back at camp before breakfast and when he greeted his mother, Joseph had wondered with a sudden stab of alarm if she could tell. He had blushed at the thought and turned quickly away, but as time pa.s.sed he found that he desperately wanted to share his secret with her; until then he'd always confided in her unhesitatingly and it seemed strange that something should now make him hold back. But perhaps, he thought to himself, adults could detect such things without being told. Just by looking maybe they could pick out those who had, or hadn't. He noticed in himself a definite tendency to swagger as he walked around the camp that morning and he had tried consciously to suppress it. But at least if his mother could tell, he reflected, she had not made any sign.

In fact Flavia Sherman had paid less attention than usual to her two sons since her arrival at the camp. The dawn ride alone with Jacques Devraux through the breathtaking natural beauty of the tropical forest had first heightened the pleasurable feeling of pent-up excitement that had been growing within her in recent days, then eventually left her feeling tense and on edge. Since the evening of the reception at the governor's palais when she had turned her head to find him looking at her, the memory of the naked desire she had seen in Jacques Devraux's eyes had smoldered in her mind. Because she knew he would be meeting her at the road alone, she had risen very early and bathed and scented herself with special care in her suite at the Continental Palace that morning. She had dressed her hair with a dark, crocheted net beneath her sun helmet and put on new, snug-fitting breeches and a tailored bush shirt that flattered her slender, shapely figure.

When she stepped from the car he had greeted her with careful formality and his manner had remained stiff and impersonal as they began the ride; but she sensed a tension in him too and knew intuitively that it was not a lack of interest that kept his gaze averted from her. Inside her she had felt a little sense of triumph begin to grow as they rode side by side through the cool bright jungle glades; sometimes she had allowed her horse to drift towards his on the narrow trail, perhaps hoping he might give voice to the pa.s.sion his expression had seemed to promise at the palais. But as they made their way towards the camp he had spoken only to point Out signs of bird and animal life that bethought might interest her; in the mud at the riverside, he showed her the pug mark of a tiger that had drunk there the previous evening and at another point on the trail he drew her attention to torn-up gra.s.ses and leafless trees that marked the pa.s.sing of a herd of elephant. Her eyes sparkled afresh at each new revelation and she hung on his every word, but his lean face remained expressionless, his eyes unchangingly distant.

"My sons told me you lost your wife in a swimming accident four years ago, Monsieur Devraux," she had said at last, speaking quietly in French. "I was very sorry to hear that."

She had chosen her words with calculation in an attempt to break the impersonal barrier the Frenchman seemed determined to keep between them. But if her words had any effect on him, he hadn't revealed it; instead he had continued to avoid her glance, riding at her side with his features frozen in the same expressionless mask.

"Do you still feel her absence keenly?" she had asked, determined to extract a response of some kind.

"I've chosen to keep myself to myself!"

The vehemence of his reply had taken her aback, and suddenly she heard the throb of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. A flush of embarra.s.sment rose to her cheeks at her own uncharacteristic forwardness and she lapsed into an unhappy silence, which to her surprise the Frenchman broke a minute later.

"My work fills all my time. Colonial life is very predictable. French colons love only to gossip. I prefer to hunt - and keep myself apart." He had spoken his words with his habitual grim- faced detachment and still didn't turn to look at her.

"When I first saw you at the governor's reception. I thought you seemed.. unhappy."

He had abruptly spurred ahead of her then without replying, and they had ridden without speaking further for a long while. The coldness of his manner had convinced her they wouldn't speak again, but in the middle of a clearing he had reined in his horse and turned to wait for her. He had looked directly into her face for the first time, and she saw his dark eyes blaze with a mixture of anger and pain. "We took our car on a river ferry during a monsoon storm. My wife was reluctant to go, but I had crossed often before in bad weather. The ferry sank, I dived many times. Once I felt my hand touch her sleeve on the river bottom - but I couldn't find her." The muscles in his face had flexed tight as he spoke and his breathing had become uneven. "Now perhaps you will be kind enough, Madame Sherman, to ask me no more questions."

He had ridden on ahead again, ignoring her apology, and remained in front until they reached the camp. Around the huts he had avoided all contact with her and although they stood side by side listening to her husband, he did nothing to acknowledge her existence.

On the question of conduct, who does what, who goes where in the jungle," the senator was saying, "the word of Monsieur Jacques Devraux will be law. He knows the terrain and the animals. But I don't need to remind you that we're here to collect for display groups in the Sherman Museum. So it will be me who decides who shoots what, and when." The senator smiled broadly at all of them and lifted his hand towards the Frenchman, gesturing for him to lead the way. "If that's clearly understood, let's make a start, Monsieur Devraux."

They followed him out of the camp in single file and headed along the riverbank, making for watering places where buffalo liked to wallow in the heat of the day. Although they moved stealthily on Devraux's instructions, great flocks of black parrots rose from the tops of the trees as they pa.s.sed below, darkening the sky and filling the air with the sustained applause of their flapping wings. Armies of monkeys marching through the jungle roof on swinging arms took fright, too, when they saw the little file of humans and they fled chattering through the upper branches almost as speedily as the birds. Every few minutes Jacques Devraux sent his trackers up the taller trees to scan the plain on the other side of the river, but each time they descended shaking their heads. None of the watering places they visited showed any signs of fresh tracks, and no animals were sighted in the first. hour.

As the sun rose higher in the pale sky the temperature climbed steeply and patches of perspiration began to appear on the backs of the men's shirts. The jungle birds fell silent in the growing heat, and Jacques Devraux eventually called a halt and distributed flasks of cold tea that had been carried in satchels by the Moi bearers.

"I will go quickly ahead on my own to search for new tracks, senator," he said brusquely. "The animals don't seem to be heading for their usual haunts today."

A few minutes after they started again a movement out on the plain caught Nathaniel Sherman's eye. He motioned his family and Paul to halt and pointed silently across the river to a herd of muntjac grazing in the long gra.s.s. "Okay, Joseph, here's your big chance," he said in a hushed whisper. "Since we're not being led to any buffalo, take one of those muntjac does. Then that little fawn you shot last night won't feel lonely in the museum."

Joseph hesitated for a moment then sank to his knees. Pulling his rifle to his shoulder he squinted along the barrel, aiming at the broadest part of the deer's neck. He tightened his finger on the trigger but again the fragile, defenseless beauty of the deer prevented him from firing and he lowered his rifle immediately. "I can't shoot it, Daddy - even for our museum. It looks too helpless." He stood up and let his rifle b.u.t.t slip to the ground. "And you might as well know that it was Paul who shot the fawn last night too, not me."

His father looked at him with a disappointed expression, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Okay, Chuck," he said at last in a resigned voice, "show Momma's boy here how to shoot muntjac!"

Chuck fired from a standing position, and the deer sprang into the air then fell and lay still.

"Nice going, son," said the senator quietly and sent one of the Moi trackers across the river to retrieve the fallen doe.

Joseph hung back walking slowly as the others moved on again, and his mother, noticing his discomfited expression, waited for him at the side of the track. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Joseph, in not wanting to kill a beautiful animal," she said softly. "I'm really rather proud of you."

He smiled back at his mother in grat.i.tude, but when she made to put a consoling arm around his shoulders he moved aside. "We'd better catch up with the others, hadn't we?" he said quickly, gesturing along the track. Inside his head he could still hear his father's slighting reference to a "Momma's boy" and because this rankled more than his inability to shoot the doe, he hurried on ahead of her in case his father should turn and see them close together.

As Joseph caught up with the senator and Chuck, Jacques Devraux appeared on the track ahead, walking quickly back towards them. "What was that shot?" he asked in a sharp tone of reproof.

"Since we weren't being shown any buffalo," replied the senator, smiling easily, "we bagged a muntjac that I spotted on the plain - for one of our smaller groups."

"Your shot will make sure we see no big game for at least another hour," countered the Frenchman tersely. "It's better not to shoot smaller animals until you have the bigger prizes you seek. We'll have to cross to the other side of the plain now to find anything."