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McKittrick’s bullet.
    The squealing was high-pitched now, followed by snuffling snarls and, heart pounding, still crouching, he went down full length, using the rifle barrel to part the bushes in front of him. Cutler stiffened, felt his eyes fly wide in surprise.
    Below him in a draw where water had lain long enough to make a mire and a slushy pool, a huge man stripped to the waist was knee-deep in mud, lunging at a trapped and bleeding wild boar with a … Deke wasn’tsure what it was. At first he thought it was a sword, then he saw that it had a long-bladed spearhead, about fifteen inches of blued steel on a short handle no more than two feet in length.
    The man was jabbing at the boar that had several wounds in its hide. The curving tusks slashed at the tormentor and the man leapt back, swearing in some language Cutler didn’t recognize. Wounded and likely dying, the boar made a last desperate attempt to escape past the prodding spear. Mud flew in a fanning spray and water geysered as the huge animal lunged through the mud and slush, the lowered head forcing a brown bow wave as the raking tusks sought the big man.
    He leapt clear of the slush, let out a roar and while still airborne, took the slippery handle of the spear in both hands and drove the glinting blade down between the boar’s heaving shoulders. The snarling squeal of pain hurt Deke’s ears and the animal lunged and bucked in its final spasms, blood gushing from its mouth, as the man leaned all his weight on the spear, driving it completely through the hairy body and pinning the boar to the ground.
    Deke hadn’t been conscious of holding a breath but now he let it out slowly, hissing between his teeth. He had never seen anything like it, not even when Indians, a dozen at a time, cornered a bear and ran it through with stone-headed lances while others shot arrow after arrow into the hairy body.
    But this had been man against beast, one on one.
    The big man below tossed his head, long muddy hair flying up out of his eyes as he lifted his face skywardsand let out a great roar of triumph, brandishing the bloody spear.
    Cutler began to slide back but suddenly froze as something cold and very sharp sliced through the loose folds of his shirt and pricked his skin. He felt a thread of warm blood crawl across his flesh as he turned his head slowly.
    He thought he had had his share of shocks for the day but here was another one.
    A totally bald black man, slim and tall as a tree, he seemed from Cutler’s angle, and wearing some sort of red robe over one shoulder, belted about the middle, stood over him, prodding him with a long, slim-handled spear which had an oval metal blade about six inches long, now only a hair’s breadth from his flesh.
    ‘Stay!’ the man said in a deep voice and even that single word seemed to have a lilt of music in it.
    Deke Cutler stayed put. He had never seen a man like this before – and he had never seen a spear like the man held ready to drive deep into his body if he so much as twitched a finger.

CHAPTER 4
SPEARMAN
    Cutler didn’t move. The black man, well over six feet tall, and his spear an extra six inches above that, didn’t move, either. He called out to the mud-and-blood- spattered spearman below in a sing-song language. The big white man looked up sharply, wiping mud and grit from the wooden handle of his strange weapon and then started up the slope.
    When he arrived he looked down at Cutler, saw his puzzlement. He grinned through the layer of grime. He gestured to the black man and the man stepped back.
    ‘He’s Samburu. You’d never pronounce his real name so you can call him Sam.’ He attempted to wipe his large right hand on his filthy trousers and extended it. ‘I’m Piet van Rensberg’ – he pronounced it ‘von’. ‘You can call me either Pete or Van.’
    Cutler sat up, wincing involuntarily, seeing that van Rensberg noted the expression. Piet took Cutler’s right arm and helped him to his feet. The