Read Online Rage by Wilbur Smith - Free Book Online

to aim at the empty space where they would be a microsecond later when the supersonic bullet reached them.
    With some men shooting well is skill learned with much practice and concentration. With Shasa it was a talent that he had been born with. As he turned his upper body, the long barrel pointed exactly where he was looking and the cross-hairs of the telescopic sight moved smoothly in the centre of his vision and settled on the nimble body of a racing antelope as it went bounding high in the air. Shasa was not conscious of squeezing the trigger, the rifle seemed to fire of its own accord and the recoil drove into his shoulder at precisely the correct instant.
    The ram died in the air, turned over by the bullet so his snowy belly flashed in the sunlight, somersaulting to the impetus of the tiny metal capsule as it lanced his heart, and he fell and rolled homed head over dainty hoofs as he hit the earth and lay still.
    Shasa worked the bolt and picked up another running creature and the rifle fired again and the sharp stink of burned powder prickled his nostrils. He kept shooting until the barrel was hot enough to raise blisters and his eardrums ached to the crackle of shot.
    Then the last of the herds were gone past them and over the hills behind them, and the gunfire died away. Shasa
unloaded the cartridges that remained in his rifle and looked at Manfred De La Rey.
    â€˜Eight,’ Manfred said, ‘and two wounded.’ It was amazing how those tiny creatures could carry away a misplaced bullet. They would have to follow them up. It was unthinkable to allow a wounded animal to suffer unnecessarily.
    â€˜Eight is a good score,’ Shasa told him. ‘You can be pleased with your shooting.’
    â€˜And you?’ Manfred asked. ‘How many?’
    â€˜Twelve,’ Shasa answered expressionlessly.
    â€˜How many wounded?’ Manfred hid his chagrin well enough.
    â€˜Oh.’ Shasa smiled at last. ‘I don’t wound animals – I shoot where I aim.’ That was enough. He did not have to rub in salt.
    Shasa left him and walked out to the nearest carcass. The springbok lay on its side and in death the deep fold of skin along its back had opened and from it the snowy plume started erect. Shasa went down on one knee and stroked the lovely plume. From the glands in the fold of skin had exuded reddish-brown musk, and Shasa parted the long plume and rubbed the secretion with his forefinger, then raised it to his face and inhaled the honey-scented aroma. It smelled more like a flower than an animal. Then the hunter’s melancholy came upon him, and he mourned the beautiful little creature he had killed.
    â€˜Thank you for dying for me.’ He whispered the ancient Bushman prayer that Centaine had taught him so long ago, and yet the sadness was pleasure, and deep inside him the atavistic urge of the hunter was for the moment replete.

I n the cool of the evening the men gathered around the pits of glowing embers in front of the homestead. The braaivleis , or meat bake, was a ritual that followed the hunt; the men did the cooking while the women were relegated to the preparation of salads and pudding at the long trestle tables on the stoep. The game had been marinated or larded or made into spiced sausage and the livers, kidneys and tripes were treated to jealously guarded recipes before they were laid upon the coals in the grilling pit, while the self-appointed chefs kept the heat of the fires from becoming oppressive with liberal draughts of mampoer , the pungent peach brandy.
    A scratch band of coloured farm labourers belted out traditional country airs on banjo and concertina and some of the guests danced on the wide front stoep. A few of the younger women were very interesting, and Shasa eyed them thoughtfully. They were tanned and glowing with health and an unsophisticated sensuality that was made all the more appealing by the fact of their Calvinist upbringing. Their untouchability