The Sound of Thunder by Wilbur Smith

yard. In the shadows the watchers stood, chilled with the dreadful fascination of it. The man was frozen also, only his head moved and no sound came from his open lips-and Sean closed in with the weaving motion of a cobra in erection.
    At the last moment the man tried to run, but his legs were slack and heavy with fear-and Sean hit him in the chest with a sound like an axe swung against a tree-trunk.
    As he fell Sean went in after him, straddling his chest, roaring incoherently with only a single word recognizable-the name of the woman he loved. In his madness he felt the man’s face breaking up under his fists, felt the warm spatter of blood thrown into his own face and on to his arms, and heard the shouts of the crowd.
    “He’ll kill him!”
    “Get him off ” “For Chrissake give me a hand-he’s as strong as a bloody OX. Their hands upon him, an arm locked around his throat from behind, the shock as someone hit him with a bottle, the press of their bodies as they swarmed over him.
    With men clinging to him, two of them riding his back and a dozen others on his arms and legs, Sean came to his feet.
    ” Pull his legs out from under him. ” “Get him down, man. Get him down.
    With a convulsive heave Sean swung the men on his arms into violent collision with each other. They released him.
    He kicked his right leg free, and those on his other leg let go and scattered. Reaching over his shoulders he plucked the men off his back and stood alone, his chest swelling and subsiding as he breathed, the blood from the bottle gash in his scalp trickling down his face and soaking into his beard.
    “Get a gun!” someone shouted.
    “There’s a shotgun under the bar.” But no one left the circle that ringed him in, and Sean glared around at them his eyes staring wildly from the plane of glistening blood that was his face.
    “You’ve killed him!” a voice accused him. And the words reached Sean through the madness, his body relaxed slightly and he tried to wipe away the blood with the open palm of his hand. They saw the change in him.
    “Cool down, mate. Fun’s fun but the hell with murder.
    “Easy, now. Let’s have a look what you’ve done to him.
    Sean looked down on the body, and he was confused and then suddenly afraid. The man was dead-he was certain of it.
    “Oh, my God!” he whispered, backing away, wiping at his eyes ineffectually and smearing blood.
    “He pulled a knife. Don’t worry, mate, you’ve got witnesses. ” The temper of the crowd had changed.
    “No,” Sean mumbled; they didn’t understand. For the first time in his life he had abused his strength, had used it to kill without purpose. To kill for the pleasure of it, to kill in the manner in which a leopard kills.
    Then the man moved slightly, he rolled his head and one of his legs flexed and straightened. Sean felt hope leap within him.
    “He’s alive! ” I
    “Get a doctor.
    Fearfully Sean approached and knelt beside the man, he un knotted the scarf from around his own throat and cleaned the bloody mouth and nostrils.
    “He’ll be all right-leave him to the Doc.
    The doctor came, a lean and laconic man chewing tobacco.
    In the yellow light of a hurricane lamp he examined and prodded while they crowded close about him craning to see over his shoulders.
    At last the doctor stood up.
    “All right. He can be moved. Carry him up to my surgery.”
    Then he looked at Sean. “Did you do it?”
    Sean nodded.
    “Remind me not to annoy you.”
    “I didn’t mean to-it just sort of happened.
    “Is that so? ” The doctor shot a stream of yellow tobacco juice into the dust of the yard. “Let’s have a look at your head. ” He pulled Sean’s head down to his own level and parted the sodden black hair.
    “Nicked a vein. Doesn’t need a stitch. Wash it and a little iodine. ” “How much, Doc, for the other fellow?” Sean asked.
    “You paying?” The doctor looked at him quizzically.
    “Yes.”
    “Broken jaw, broken collar-bone, about two