Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [185]
“Damn,” Mr. Williams said.
Mr. Briggs and Mr. McEvoy stared at Luke Honey with something akin to religious awe. “Spears?” Mr. Briggs said. “Did you bring one?”
“Nope. A couple of rifles, my .45, and some knives. I travel light.”
“I’m shocked the limeys put up with the lack of foot servants,” Mr. Briggs said.
“I doubt any of us are capable of understanding you, Mr. Honey,” Mr. Williams said. “I’m beginning to think you may be one of those rare mysteries of the world.”
AN HOUR BEFORE dusk, Scobie and a grimy boy in suspenders and no shirt approached the hunters while they paused to smoke cigarettes, drink brandy, and water the horses.
Scobie said, “Arlen here came across sign of a large stag yonder a bit. Fair knocked the bark from trees with its antlers, right, boy?” The boy nodded and scowled as Scobie tousled his hair. “The boy has a keen eye. How long were the tracks?” The boy gestured, and Lord Bullard whistled in astonishment.
Mr. Williams snorted and fanned a circle with his hat to disperse a cloud of mosquitoes. “We’re talking about a deer, not a damned buffalo.”
Scobie shrugged. “Blackwood’s Baby is twice the size of any buck you’ve set eyes on, I’ll reckon.”
“Pshaw!” Mr. Williams cut himself a plug and stuffed it into his mouth. He nudged his roan sideways, disengaging from the conversation.
“I say, let’s have at this stag,” Mr. Wesley said, to which Lord Bullard nodded.
“Damned tooting. I’d like a crack at the critter,” Mr. Briggs said.
“The dogs are tired and it’s late,” Scobie said. “I’ve marked the trail, so we can find it easy tomorrow.”
“Bloody hell!” Lord Bullard said. “We’ve light yet. I’ve paid my wage to nab this beastie, so I say lead on!”
“Easy, now,” Mr. Welloc said. “Night’s on us soon and these woods get very, very dark. Crashing about is foolhardy, and if Master Scobie says the dogs need rest, then best to heed his word.”
Lord Bullard rolled his eyes. “What do you suggest, then?”
Scobie said, “Camp is set around the corner. We’ve got hunting shacks scattered along these trails. I’ll kennel the hounds at one and meet you for another go at daybreak.”
“A sensible plan,” Mr. McEvoy said. As the shadows deepened and men and horses became smoky ghosts in the dying light, he’d begun to cast apprehensive glances over his shoulder.
Luke Honey had to admit there was a certain eeriness to the surroundings, a sense of inimical awareness that emanated from the depths of the forest. He noted how the horses flared their nostrils and shifted skittishly. There were boars and bears in this preserve, although he doubted any lurked within a mile after all the gunfire and barking. He’d experienced a similar sense of menace in Africa near the hidden den of a terrible lion, a dreaded man-eater. He rubbed his horse’s neck and kept a close watch on the bushes.
Mr. Landscomb clasped Scobie’s elbow. “Once you’ve seen to the animals, do leave them to the lads. I’d enjoy your presence after supper.”
Scobie looked unhappy. He nodded curtly and left with the boy.
Camp was a fire pit centered between two boulders the size of carriages. A dilapidated lean-to provided a dry area to spread sleeping bags and hang clothes. Stable boys materialized to unsaddle the horses and tether them behind the shed. Lodge workers had ignited a bonfire and laid out a hot meal sent from the chef. This meal included the roasted heart and liver from the buck Lord Bullard brought down earlier.
“Not sure I’d tuck into those vittles,” Mr. Williams said, waving his fork at Lord Bullard and Mr. Wesley. “Should let that meat cool a day or two, else you’ll get the screamin’ trots.”
Mr. McEvoy stopped shoveling beans into his mouth to laugh. “That’s right. Scarf enough of that liver and you’ll think you caught dysentery.”
Lord Bullard spooned a jellified chunk of liver into his mouth. “Bollocks. Thirty years afield in the muck and the mud with boot leather and ditch water for breakfast. My intestines are made of iron. Aye, Wes?”
“You’ve got the right of it,” Mr. Wesley said, although sans his typical enthusiasm.