howling, trigger-happy hunters? She might well be right in their line of fire.
A twinge of terror cured her weariness instantly. What exactly might a cornered croc be expected to do? The unfocused shapelessness of the peril, her ignorance about it, multiplied her fear. She must get back away from the water. She turned and started hastily up the bank, slipping in the rain-slick slop.
Then the world exploded. As one the beaters screamed and pounded, Mr. Sloan shouted, his rifle roared—the pond burst high behind her, a great crashing wall of water. She dived forward without thinking into the slime and flung her arms over her head. Her face pressed tight into the mud as all the cannon of the Crimea thundered and volleyed.
Many footbeats came pattering toward her, but she dared not move, much less raise her head. Samantha Connolly, Mum’s little helper, the chief domestic of Sugarlea’s household staff, the woman in sure command of herself at all times, began to weep. She choked on mud and still she couldn’t stop her wild and violent sobbing.
“Sam!” Warm and powerful hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her to sitting. “Are you shot? Did I hit you?”
She shook her head; it was the best she could do for the moment. She tried to say “I’m fine, really,” but all that came out was a coughing fit. Against her better judgment she raised her eyes. The long, pointed nose and pallid gorge lay at her very feet. If crocodiles have eyelids, this monster wasn’t using them; the glassed eye stared unseeing at her shoe.
She forced her eyes higher. Mr. Sloan’s face was tight with concern, his dark eyes studying her anxiously. She tried again to ease his mind but only blithering came out. And then in the aftermath of her terror, he utterly surprised her. The master of Sugarlea wrapped his long arms around and gathered her in firmly against him. She was tear-streaked and muddy; her nose was plugged and slurpy from crying; and he didn’t seem to mind a bit.
Another heavy sob or two and she began picking up the pieces. She sat erect and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank ye, sir. I’m all right now.”
One of the beaters, a black fellow, approached the beast. Mr. Sloan twisted swiftly toward him and snarled, “It’s mine!” The man backed away instantly. The strange little vignette struck Samantha almost exactly like a lion laying claim to its kill—or a dog defending a bone.
She struggled to her feet, her legs all tangled in her skirts, and his strong hands steadied her. He left her then, and straddled the carcass. He rolled it to its side, its back toward her. The stubby little foreleg flopped limp. She couldn’t see the belly as he ripped it open, and just as well.
He stabbed and poked a moment, then stood erect. “The hunt is over.” Almost carelessly he tossed a black handful of something into the mud beside the beast’s snout. He dipped his head toward Gantry nearby. “Go find her.”
The mill foreman stared scowling at the black lump for a moment and turned away. He walked off toward the boats, shouting orders.
Mr. Sloan handed Samantha the knife. “Wash it off in boiling water first.”
“Aye. Of course.” She looked at him and didn’t feel the least ashamed of the hot tears in her eyes. “I dinnae understand, sir. Kathleen’s gone, aye? Ye’re certain?”
He turned toward the rain fly, so she walked beside him. He rubbed his face. “Yes, I’m certain.”
“The black thing?”
“Her shoe. Guess you didn’t recognize it. You see, Sam, a croc’s jaws are murderously strong, but its teeth aren’t really all that sharp. So it seizes its victim and drags it underwater ’til it drowns. If the prey is small enough to swallow, down it goes. If it’s big, the croc will simply hold the body in its mouth until it softens up—decomposes—or stashes it away underwater for a while.”
“And returns to it later when ’tis nice and tender.” Samantha shuddered. She stepped in under
A twinge of terror cured her weariness instantly. What exactly might a cornered croc be expected to do? The unfocused shapelessness of the peril, her ignorance about it, multiplied her fear. She must get back away from the water. She turned and started hastily up the bank, slipping in the rain-slick slop.
Then the world exploded. As one the beaters screamed and pounded, Mr. Sloan shouted, his rifle roared—the pond burst high behind her, a great crashing wall of water. She dived forward without thinking into the slime and flung her arms over her head. Her face pressed tight into the mud as all the cannon of the Crimea thundered and volleyed.
Many footbeats came pattering toward her, but she dared not move, much less raise her head. Samantha Connolly, Mum’s little helper, the chief domestic of Sugarlea’s household staff, the woman in sure command of herself at all times, began to weep. She choked on mud and still she couldn’t stop her wild and violent sobbing.
“Sam!” Warm and powerful hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her to sitting. “Are you shot? Did I hit you?”
She shook her head; it was the best she could do for the moment. She tried to say “I’m fine, really,” but all that came out was a coughing fit. Against her better judgment she raised her eyes. The long, pointed nose and pallid gorge lay at her very feet. If crocodiles have eyelids, this monster wasn’t using them; the glassed eye stared unseeing at her shoe.
She forced her eyes higher. Mr. Sloan’s face was tight with concern, his dark eyes studying her anxiously. She tried again to ease his mind but only blithering came out. And then in the aftermath of her terror, he utterly surprised her. The master of Sugarlea wrapped his long arms around and gathered her in firmly against him. She was tear-streaked and muddy; her nose was plugged and slurpy from crying; and he didn’t seem to mind a bit.
Another heavy sob or two and she began picking up the pieces. She sat erect and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank ye, sir. I’m all right now.”
One of the beaters, a black fellow, approached the beast. Mr. Sloan twisted swiftly toward him and snarled, “It’s mine!” The man backed away instantly. The strange little vignette struck Samantha almost exactly like a lion laying claim to its kill—or a dog defending a bone.
She struggled to her feet, her legs all tangled in her skirts, and his strong hands steadied her. He left her then, and straddled the carcass. He rolled it to its side, its back toward her. The stubby little foreleg flopped limp. She couldn’t see the belly as he ripped it open, and just as well.
He stabbed and poked a moment, then stood erect. “The hunt is over.” Almost carelessly he tossed a black handful of something into the mud beside the beast’s snout. He dipped his head toward Gantry nearby. “Go find her.”
The mill foreman stared scowling at the black lump for a moment and turned away. He walked off toward the boats, shouting orders.
Mr. Sloan handed Samantha the knife. “Wash it off in boiling water first.”
“Aye. Of course.” She looked at him and didn’t feel the least ashamed of the hot tears in her eyes. “I dinnae understand, sir. Kathleen’s gone, aye? Ye’re certain?”
He turned toward the rain fly, so she walked beside him. He rubbed his face. “Yes, I’m certain.”
“The black thing?”
“Her shoe. Guess you didn’t recognize it. You see, Sam, a croc’s jaws are murderously strong, but its teeth aren’t really all that sharp. So it seizes its victim and drags it underwater ’til it drowns. If the prey is small enough to swallow, down it goes. If it’s big, the croc will simply hold the body in its mouth until it softens up—decomposes—or stashes it away underwater for a while.”
“And returns to it later when ’tis nice and tender.” Samantha shuddered. She stepped in under
Similar Books
