The Last Leopard Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the edge of the bank and tumbled headfirst into the water. He’d just left the word fall off the end of water .
    He and Martine had been mildly scolded for taking unnecessary risks, but Gwyn Thomas’s main concern had been getting Ben dry and making sure he had hot tea, a hearty dinner, and an early night in the cozy log cabin. Apart from being stiff and sore, he was as good as new the next day, and the trio were in high spirits when they reached the Zimbabwe border in the early afternoon.
    “Are you treasure hunters or leopard hunters?” the customs official demanded when he heard that they were on their way to Matopos. He studied them suspiciously over the tops of their passports, which he held fanned out like a poker player with a handful of aces. “Treasure hunters, I think. You want to come to Zimbabwe to get rich?”
    “We’re doing nothing of the kind,” snapped Gwyn Thomas, trying and failing to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “We’re on our way to take care of a sick friend.”
    “Ah, you are Good Samaritans?” He gave a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. “In that case, you are most welcome to Zimbabwe.”

    It was a three-hour journey to Matopos, which stretched to four when they visited six different gas stations in the hope of finding fuel in Bulawayo, the nearest city. They drove through wide, curiously old-fashioned streets, overhung by jacaranda and flamboyant trees. Everything seemed to be in an advanced state of disrepair. There were potholes in the roads big enough to swallow whole cows. A friendly attendant at one of the garages where they stopped told them that the electricity worked for only four hours a day and often the water would go off for days at a time.
    “How do you manage?” Gwyn Thomas wanted to know.
    “We make a plan,” he told her, and laughed.
    Martine knew almost nothing about Zimbabwe, except that it bordered South Africa, was shaped like a teapot on the map, and was the home to one of the seven natural wonders of the world, the Victoria Falls. Martine hoped the waterfall was a long way from where they were going. She was not in a hurry to see another one.
    She’d learned a couple of new things in the few hours since they’d crossed the border. The first was that it cost millions of Zimbabwe dollars to buy three drinks. Martine had watched in disbelief as her grandmother counted out the notes.
    The other was that Bulawayo was the Ndebele word for “place of slaughter.” The gas attendant told them that the city was named after Lobengula’s first big battle when he came to the throne—a battle in which his warriors were victorious. Martine thought it a creepy name for a town.
    Their failed search for gas meant that they had to leave Bulawayo with the tank almost empty. Gwyn Thomas tried to put a brave face on it. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” she said. “The reserve tank usually lasts for ages and we don’t have far to go.”
    It was early evening when they reached the gates of the Matopos National Park. A park official unfolded himself from a makeshift table as they pulled up. He and three uniformed guards had been playing a game of checkers using bottle caps and a piece of cardboard on which they’d drawn squares with a red pen. Their rifles lay on the ground beside them.
    “Good evening,” he said formally. “It is after six p.m. The park is closed to visitors.”
    “But it can’t be,” cried Gwyn Thomas. “We’ve driven all the way from Cape Town. We need to get to a ranch on the other side.”
    “Eeeh, I’m sorry for that,” said the official, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “You must spend the night in a hotel in Bulawayo and come back tomorrow.”
    “We can’t possibly do that,” she told him. “For one thing, we can’t afford it, and for another we’re almost out of gas.”
    “You have no fuel?” He tutted disapprovingly. “It is not a good idea to come to the Matobo Hills with no fuel. Then you must sleep in your car and