THE DANGEROUS ANIMAL MISSION
(An original Stark Adventure Short Story)

by Austin S. Camacho

The sleek black panther eased himself between the short trees. The shadows were long and he was all but invisible beneath the coffee plants. His leathery pads carried him across the soft earth in total silence. His nostrils flared as he scented prey. Not the sweet flesh of the antelope or zebra, but the pungent meat of man. His muscles coiled inside his powerful legs and his tail switched, not unlike a domestic cat stalking a mouse.

Not yet suspecting danger, the Black man looked up from his work to stare deep into those slanted amber eyes. Fear turned the man's eyes into perfect circles with black dots in the centers. His scream of terror died stillborn in his throat as the jungle cat smashed into him. The man was about the same size and weight as his attacker, but the panther's strength was enormous. Had the worker not been burdened by the burlap sack full of coffee beans, it would have made no difference. In less than a minute, the beast was dragging his prey across the field toward his favored tree.

The man never even had time to pray.

* * * * *

"I'm no philosopher, Morgan," Dokier said, straightening up, "but I know this. In the capitalist society, the government doesn't decide what's important. People decide, with their money. In this case, nothing's as important as a hill of beans."

Morgan Stark gave a thin smile. He had not come to like Dokier, even though he agreed to work for him. He did not like the man, but he liked his money.

"I'm the best hunter you'll ever meet," Morgan said, shifting the sling of the rifle over his shoulder. "I'll get your killer leopard for you, but don't you think three dead workers are a little more important than your coffee crop? What about that poor guy that got dragged off yesterday?"

"You think I don't value their lives because they were Black?" Dokier asked in his strong French accent. He pulled the safari hat lower over his eyes to shield them against the blinding sun. "I certainly value my own life. So why do you think I'm out here myself, finishing this row?"

"You're here because it's your money on the line," Morgan said, "but I respect you for it anyway." Morgan respected Leopold Dokier as an entrepreneur and as a man. The Belgian was short, but wide and muscular. He had come to the Congo in the mid 1960's and started this coffee plantation. Only five years previous, in 1971, the Congo had become Zaire and gained independence from Belgium.

Morgan was as Black as the rest of Dokier's employees, but unlike the others he was an American. He figured this European had made a much tougher adjustment to the climate.

"You know, I hate this hat." Dokier said while picking beans. Morgan knew he could not take the sun, but on this blistering day he was out there where his workers were afraid to go. The safari hat must have chafed at his head through his short brown hair. He had the collar of his khaki shirt turned up and the matching pants were tucked into tall boots. He even wore thin gloves to protect his hands. He wouldn't burn, and he was getting the job done.

"I'm going up to the big house," Morgan said. "I'll have your foreman set up watch posts for the cat. If I can run him down, and if you can give me a few beaters, I'll finish this tonight."

Morgan walked down the rows of coffee plants toward the main house, scanning for tracks along the way. Their absence meant that the leopard had not been this close to the house yet. He stopped at the edge of the clearing between the planted area and the house. It was a hundred yards to the wrap around porch. If he could chase the animal there, Morgan could finish him off with no problem.

Dokier had built himself a mansion more suited to the Old South than equatorial Africa. Morgan circled to the back where he was more likely to find someone, and headed in. While wiping his feet, he heard what sounded like a moan. He stepped into the kitchen in silence, as he had moved on commando raids just months before for Uncle Sam in Vietnam.

Dokier's wife Elise was petite, blond, and some would say beautiful. Morgan recognized the man holding her in his arms. He was Tomas Pasin, Dokier's nearest neighbor and owner of the coffee plantation which bordered this one on the west. Morgan smiled and backed out the door. The girl flushed crimson and ran to the dining room. Pasin ran to the back door and caught up to Morgan in seconds.

"Stark. What were you doing in the house?"

"Me? I was looking for the foreman," Morgan replied. "I got work to do. I KNOW what you were doing in the house." The two men stood eye to eye and any belligerence Pasin was building soon disappeared. He was tall and athletic, with black hair combed in a rakish style. One lock fell in a comma over one eye.

But he was looking at a man who had served in the American Army's Special Forces. Morgan was six feet two inches and a hundred and ninety pounds of solid muscle. His hair was short and he wore a camouflaged uniform and combat boots. A pistol hung at his hip, a rifle was slung over his shoulder and a big fighting knife rode in a scabbard at the small of his back. It was an intimidating picture.

"I was, eh...that is, Mrs. Dokier is frightened about these animal killings."

"Yeah. Well, I could see you were comforting her in her hour of need." Sarcasm thickened Morgan voice. "Why don't you try doing something useful, like helping us nail this leopard?"

"Well of course I'll help. As to the other...how old are you son?"

"Twenty-one," Morgan said. "Why?"

"Well, you don't understand all about these things quite yet."

"Look, I lied about my age to go fight in the 'Nam," Morgan said, staring at the horizon. "I been a sky diver, spent a couple years as a mercenary soldier, built a reputation as a big game hunter leading safaris&ldots;I been around, okay? I know Dokier's a workaholic and maybe he doesn't take care of his homework as well as he should, but what you're doing, well it's the same sleazy deal all over the world." Morgan bit off his words as if realizing he had said too much.

"Well, eh, yes, well, what about this leopard?"

"He's been looking at my house." The newcomer was the foreman, Robert Saveebe. He was a Pygmy, almost as small a minority in Zaire as the Belgians. His head was shaved and he wore a small goatee on his chin. He was dressed in khakis, like his boss. Looking down at him, Morgan thought that this man smiled too much for comfort.

"You saw the leopard?" Morgan asked.

"No, but there are tracks all around my place," Saveebe replied. "From their size, this must be the biggest cat in Africa. You've been hired to kill a giant."

"I can handle him with this," Morgan said, holding up his hunting weapon, which was not the bolt action type used by most African hunters. "It's a Marlin model 1895SS lever action. The wild west appearance aside, in North America people take grizzly bears with this .45-70 caliber. It'll put down any leopard you bring around."

"Excellent. I love to hear such optimism," Dokier said, entering behind Saveebe. "I've almost finished the rows just past your little house, Saveebe. Gentlemen, I suggest we sit down to dinner together and plot a strategy for the death of this killer cat." Morgan noticed that Dokier greeted the Blacks in the same easy manner he showed his White neighbor. It was even more telling that he greeted that neighbor as if he were a friend. Could it be he did not know?

* * * * *

Whatever else Elise Dokier may have been, she was an excellent cook. His time in Africa had taught Morgan not to ask what the meat was in a meal, but the stew was delicious. Between bites, Morgan outlined his plan, using a map of the plantation spread in the center of the big table.

"Tonight I'll follow the leopard's tracks to its home tree. Then I'll set some beaters out there to flush it toward the clearing at the base of the house. I'd like you, Saveebe, to stay at your house with a rifle, to scare the leopard back toward center. I'll need a man in the pulping house too." He stabbed a finger at the building to the west where the beans were removed from the coffee berries. Dokier nodded.

"And someone will have to stay at the main house to make sure the animal isn't chased into it."

"I can take care of that," Pasin said. Morgan looked at him, then at Dokier who shrugged. "Fine," Morgan said.

After dinner Mr.s Dokier served what appeard to Morgan to be apple pie.

"This is delicious," Morgan said.

"Just baked it today," she answered, with a slight blush.

"Yes, and with it, the best coffee on the Ivory Coast," Dokier said, swallowing a bite of his own pie.

* * * * *

When dessert was over, everyone seemed contented. Dokier even helped clear the dishes. But the guests' smiles were more forced once Dokier and his wife were in the kitchen. Their guarded words hinted at some disagreement about the use of the house money. The conversation ended with a loud slap and a muffled cry from Mrs. Dokier. When he returned to the dining room, Dokier looked grim.

"I'm going to grab a rifle and get back to that row I was working on to finish picking the berries," he said, indicating with his tone that it was time to get back to business. "Then I'll head for my station in the pulping house."

As he passed, the men rose and followed him to the front porch. As they started down the steps, an aged Land Rover rattled up and stopped in front of them. The man who jumped out was taller than Morgan and looked like an ebony statue of a professional body builder. His head was shaved, and his teeth were yellow and crooked. He looked at Dokier with blood in his eyes and Morgan smelled serious trouble.

"What are you doing here, Kasavulu?" Dokier asked, his teeth clenched in defiance despite the newcomer's eighteen inch height advantage.

"Are you surprised?" the giant asked. "Wasn't two years of hard labor enough for you?"

"Your sentence should have been longer, thief."

"There would have been no sentence at all if you hadn't turned me in," the newcomer shouted, stepping closer. "A foreman is expected to skim some of the profits for himself." As Kasavulu rushed forward, Morgan stepped between him and Dokier, causing Kasavulu to stop short. Looking over Morgan at Dokier, the giant asked, "Is this the new foreman?"

"Dokier seems to only hire local natives for that job," Morgan said. "I'm an American. He hired me to take care of any dangerous animals that come around."

"I'm the foreman now," Saveebe said, stepping forward.

"What, this Pygmy?" Kasavulu still only addressed Dokier.

"We have ways of dealing with large enemies," Saveebe said. Morgan saw doubt in Kasavulu's eyes, as if the old foreman was hesitant to run afoul of the new.

From the porch, Pasin stammered, "I'm calling the police," and ran inside.

"I'll leave for now." Kasavulu said, backing toward his vehicle, "but I'll be back to talk when you're not surrounded by flunkies."

"I'll be waiting," Dokier said as the Land Rover sped off, spitting gravel from the drive behind it.

"You hired that guy?" Morgan asked after the dust settled.

"He was a good foreman," Dokier replied. "The coffee business is a lot of hard work, since no one's come up with a machine that can select and pick the ripe berries. He got the workers to get the job done. But I can't stand a thief, no matter how good in other ways. Steal from me, you go to jail because, as you pointed out, it's my money on the line. And since it is, I'm going to finish that row I started. If you can rid me of that dangerous animal tonight, perhaps I can get my workers back on the job."

Dokier headed off, whistling an unidentifiable tune. Morgan returned to the house just long enough to ask Mrs. Pasin if she know where her husband kept his guns. She did, and in a few minutes he was able to outfit Pasin with a good defense weapon.

"You stay here on the porch ultil you hear from me," Morgan said. "From here you can see if the animal approaches. I want you to fire fire at first sight. Don't wait to try to kill it. The first priority is to keep it away from the house."

Pasin nodded his agreement.

Saveebe the foreman had already left for his house to guard the east approach. It was about six thirty when Morgan walked down the gravel path away from the house. A bank of clouds had moved in, threatening rain. So far the cat had never approached the plantation until it was dark. Cloudy skies would bring darkness early. Morgan headed for the far side of the plantation. He figured the leopard was living in the forest on the edge of the coffee rows.

He did not figure on spotting tracks in the soft earth on the edge of the clearing within sight of the house. The cat had come closer than he imagined. And it was big, judging from the size of the tracks and their distance apart. Morgan followed the tracks, mesmerized, his rifle in his hands. Maybe he could wrap this up before dark and save the others a lot of trouble.

The leopard's meandering route carried Morgan down a path just three rows from the spot Dokier had been working. Morgan looked up to see the familiar safari hat bobbing next to a coffee tree.

"Better get to the pulping house soon," Morgan called. "I'm on the beast's trail." the man's back was to him, but a gloved hand raised and waived acknowledgement. Morgan wondered if Dokier would be so dedicated to his work if he knew what was going on back at the ranch.

A few minutes later, the tracks led Morgan to within sight of the foreman's modest but well maintained house. A rifle protruded from a side window. Had Saveebe spotted the cat and fired? Not likely. Good to know he was on the job early, though. He appeared to be a good trade from Dokier's earlier choice.

By now, a gentle sprinkle had begun, cooling Morgan's skin and making the air sharper and fresher. He followed the big cat's tracks as they wandered back toward the gravel path. The cat had crossed it, and so did Morgan. On the other side, about twenty meters into the tall grass, he found the beat up Land Rover Kasavulu had arrived in. He saw no blood, indicating that the vehicle must have been empty when the leopard arrived. The cat would have sniffed around it, and moved off into the forest. He was prowling early today. These were very fresh tracks. Morgan continued his stalking, hoping the leopard would return to its home ground.

* * * * *

Morgan stared up at the huge pale orb in the sky. It was seven years now since the first man walked on the moon and there was speculation that mars was next. Meanwhile, Morgan lay on his back on soft damp earth with his ankles crossed, between rows of trees that yield a fruit devoid of nutritional value, but of great value to the people of the earth. A fruit which, in this time of space walks, could only be picked by hand. He lay there like some ancient hunter, to rid the area of a dangerous animal. With luck, four men with drums would chase the cat out of the forest, but a lone man with a rifle designed over seventy years before would solve the problem.

His luminous dial said it was almost two in the morning, which meant that he had been there for almost five hours. Lying alone on the ground in the dark, Morgan felt like the eye of a hurricane. To him, Leopold Dokier's life seemed filled with dangerous animals. Somewhere off to the west, a Black giant prowled the woods. Had he really stolen enough to warrant hard labor? His small but powerful replacement was in the little house to the east. How much of what he had heard about Pygmies was true? South of him, at the main house, a poacher sat on the porch, guarding another man's preserve like the fabled fox guarding the hen house. Did he covet his neighbor's plantation as well as his wife? And of course due north, if things went right, the largest leopard Morgan had ever heard of was being chased toward him. A cat that had been driven by hunger to kill a man, and learned what easy prey man was. He would continue to feed the easy way until someone stopped him.

Morgan had a well-honed instinct for danger. It sometimes moved him before he could formulate thoughts. In this case, he was crouching in the darkness with his rifle in his hands before he knew why. There ahead of him, at the end of the row of coffee trees, he saw a movement.

Luck was with him. there was a gentle breeze in his face. Morgan was down wind from his quarry. As stealthy as any jungle cat, he crept forward. Every few seconds he looked through rifle's light gathering scope. He could barely hear the beaters in the background, getting nearer. Soon they would reach the predetermined line and stop the noise.

Morgan had almost reached the edge of the clearing when he got a strong feeling of danger. There, just ahead, a section of the ground shifted. Morgan focused the twelve power scope on his objective. He scanned the darkness, at first seeing nothing.

Without warning, a snarling face came into focus. It seemed so close in the scope that Morgan jumped. It was a beautiful black panther. Its coat was smooth and thick, with a rare black sheen that bounced the moonlight away. Morgan had killed many a spotted cat of this type, but this was the first black one he had ever had in his sights. He was as big as expected, Just short of nine feet from nose to tail, and probably weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. The cat turned away from Morgan and looked toward the house. When it stepped off to the right, Morgan followed.

What motivates you, Morgan wondered. What drives a magnificent beast like you to prey on men and women who can neither give you a good run or a good fight? Are you injured? Did you get tired or did you just get lazy? And am I getting like you? Morgan saw himself as a warrior. These days he had forsaken the ways of war to conduct safaris. Was there not a comparison there?

The cat moved along the edge of the clearing until it stood about fifty meters from the pulping house. His tail was to Morgan, but he was broadside to Dokier's position. Why didn't Dokier shoot? Maybe he was counting on Morgan to do what he was paid for. If so, Morgan would have to do the job. He worked the lever in one smooth motion, pushing a round into the chamber. He drew a bead on the beast but hesitated. This creature retained enough nobility to deserve to die with honor. This was the cat's domain and Morgan felt he owed the panther a clean kill.

While he stood, poised to fire, the wind shifted and Morgan mouthed a silent curse. The panther stood and turned, presenting his side to Morgan. At a hundred and fifty meters it was a fine shot. The leopard's coat shone like polished ebony under the intense moonlight. Morgan settled the scope's cross hairs on the animal's left shoulder. He would put a bullet right through his lungs. A one shot clean kill. He stopped breathing and applied slow, steady pressure to the rifle's trigger.

A fraction of a second before Morgan fired, another shot rang out. The panther jumped. The first shot was a clean miss. Morgan's bullet dug into the cat's hip. The animal leaped and vanished among the coffee trees. Morgan ran to where the leopard had been. Pasin ran out from the house, waving his rifle.

"Did I get him?"

"Not even close." Morgan replied through clenched teeth. "Worse, you spoiled my shot. Now I've got to track him down and finish the job."

"Track him down?" Pasin sounded shocked. "If you hit him at all with that thing he won't last long, will he? I mean, why risk following a wounded jungle cat?"

"Are you saying you'd just let that thing lay out there and suffer for hours, maybe days, waiting to bleed to death? What kind of animal are you?"

Expecting neither an answer nor assistance, Morgan moved off after the panther. Even in the dark of night, Morgan followed the tracks with relative ease. The leopard'smovements looked clumsy, and it was dragging one foot. In addition, spots of blood appeared with clockwork regularity on the trail.

His concentration was focused on the animal spoor, but Morgan's ears were cocked for the sound of a big cat springing. Instead, the sound that reached him a few minutes later was that of a rifle bolt being thrown. Morgan hit the ground, his rifle up and ready for battle.

"I nearly made a big mistake, I see." Saveebe said, walking up to Morgan.

Morgan got to his feet. "Did you see the leopard come by here?"

"I heard it. I came out to see if I could get a shot. Look there. Tracks. And blood."

"You've got good eyes," Morgan said. "Too bad I can't say the same for your boss. Say, have you seen him tonight? I though he had a good shot at the cat, but maybe he never made it to the pulping house."

"I saw him from my window. He stayed in the grove until eight thirty. It was getting too dark to pick, so he headed for the pulping house. Are you going to track that cat down?"

"Yeah," Morgan said. "I suggest you stay inside. He might double back, and a wounded cat is the most dangerous."

* * * * *

Morgan walked for about a half hour before he came to the edge of the forest. The going was slower now. He had not brought a machete. Still, it was only fifteen minutes later that he felt that old tension of danger. Five minutes after that, he heard a snarl and looked up.

He stood fifty meters from the base of the tree, but the snarl came from four meter off the ground. Morgan froze for a moment, and then raised his rifle to look through the scope. He found the black panther perched on a stout limb, growling its defiance. Behind it, in the crotch of the tree, hung a small human form.

The cat looked straight at Morgan, but made no hostile move. Morgan began to think he was not roaring in anger or defiance. It was crazy, but maybe he was talking to Morgan, asking for mercy or demanding respect. Yes, that was it. The cat knew he deserved a clean death. He did not want life to drain away one frustrating drop at a time. Morgan mounted his rifle and took careful aim. The leopard gave one last violent roar and then held still, almost as if posed. The shot shattered the silence of the night, and the cat's skull. Death was instantaneous. The body crashed to the floor. Now, Morgan thought, for the hard part.

Morgan's reluctance slowed his actions as he leaned his rifle against the trunk of the tree and began to climb. When he reached the body he grimaced and shook his head. The flesh was shredded from the man's back where he had been mauled but Morgan had no doubt that it was Leopold Dokier. He was dressed as when Morgan last saw him but for the gloves. Even his hat still hung around his neck by its thong. Morgan wrestled the body onto his back and somehow got it down the tree to the ground.

It was a long slow walk back to the house. Dokier was short, but solid. With him over one shoulder and the rifle over the other, Morgan was well burdened. It was after four when he came within sight of the main house. Someone inside was awake because the light was on in one of the upstairs rooms. Morgan assumed it was the master bedroom. At this point he was walking on automatic pilot. He figured he would get the body into the house. Then it was someone else's problem.

Tomas Pasin met Morgan ten paces from the porch. His black hair was dishevelled, and the comma hanging over his eye was more like an eye patch. He looked horrified and underslept. "How badly is he hurt?" he asked, reaching out but not quite touching his rival.

"He don't hurt at all. He's dead."

"Well you can't just bring him in here," Pasin whispered. "The shock to Elise..."

"Look, bud, I been lugging this guy for over an hour. I'm sure as hell going to put him somewhere."

After a brief hesitation, Pasin said, "The pulping house. Let's lay him there and call the authorities." Morgan was too numb to argue, and let Pasin lead him by the arm. They stopped at the big double doors, and Pasin puled them open. Morgan walked in. the house reminded him more of a barn, except for the special machinery used to remove the pulp from the coffee berries, freeing the two beans in each one. At the far end of the building were the fermenting and washing tanks. The air smelled musty, not at all like the welcome aroma roasted coffee gave off. Morgan laid the corpse on the floor. He stared into Dokier's vacant eyes for a moment. The man's mouth was being held open by his black, swollen tongue. Puzzled, Morgan turned him over. The condition of his back was not pretty, but there was one wound that bothered him more than the others.

"Look here." Morgan said, pointing. "This looks like a knife wound."

"What?"

"Dokier was murdered." Morgan said. He was about to elaborate when he heard a rustling behind a bank of equipment. He looked up just as Kasavulu stepped out of the shadows with a dagger in his fist. Pasin turned white with fear and bolted out the door.

"Don't be stupid," Morgan said, assuming a fighting stance. "I've been up for twenty-four hours. I dragged a corpse down out of a tree and carried it through almost three miles of jungle. You don't want to mess with me. Not now."

"You'll try to attach this death to me," Kasavulu said. He edged closer, holding his knife in front of him. Morgan held his ground and waited. At last, the giant committed himself with a straight thrust at Morgan's midsection. Morgan avoided it by sidestepping to the right. Both his hands tracked and captured the one holding the knife. By twisting and pulling, he locked the attacker's elbow. The he dropped backward, focusing his weight on Kasavulu's elbow, driving the giant's head and shoulders into the ground.

Then Morgan heard the sound of a bolt being thrown and both fighters looked up into Pasin's face. He held a rifle on Kasavulu's head, which brought the conflict to a rapid end.

* * * * *

"I just don't get it." Morgan muttered. On the front porch of the main house in the first light of day, he was speaking with a Black constable. Leaning against one of the uprights, he twirled the hat he had taken from Dokier's head.

"What's to get?" the policeman asked. "Disgruntled ex-employee waits for boss and stabs him."

"Right," Morgan said, his eyes arcing skyward. "And carries him three miles off into the woods and tosses him up in a tree. The he returns to the scene of the crime and waits to be discovered."

"What's your theory?" Pasin asked, stepping outside..

"I don't know. An elaborate frame-up? He was killed after dark. We know where everyone was but Kasavulu. Oh, and you."

Morgan did not have a theory. He was tired. His mind was torn between an image of Dokier as an unpleasant man surrounded by enemies and one of an innocent being circled by jealous villains. Nothing that made sense could explain the who or how of his murder. That was when Mrs. Dokier came outside with the other policeman. She shrieked and at first Morgan thought it was at him.

"That hat!" She screeched the words like a curse. "Throw it away. He hated it. Now it's just a horrid reminder of how he was always working. Working to give me..." She could not finish the sentence, but she did not have to. Morgan received one of those flashes of inspiration people sometimes get when they are too tired for clear, linear thought. The twisted series of events fell into place in the only way it could.

"Hey guys, could I maybe impose on your patience?" When everyone turned to him, Morgan said, "If you'll come with me, I think I can show you the murderer."

"You're in the clear, boy," the policeman said. "What do you care?"

"Well, aside from the simple fact that I hate to see a guy murdered, I think I caused the confusion myself, because I was the eye witness to a lie."

* * * * *

Robert Saveebe looked surprised when he opened the door, but he returned Morgan's broad smile and invited him in. Morgan stepped into the modest living room and turned a ladder backed chair around to sit on it facing its back. Hanging at his back was Leopold Dokier's safari hat. The Pygmy foreman offered him a beer, which he accepted.

"So, what brings the great hunter to my humble hut?" Saveebe asked.

After a long drink, Morgan said, "I wanted to ask you why you killed your boss. He paid well, and he trusted you."

"How could I have killed him? I was here when he died. I thought Kasavulu&ldots;"

"No, I don't think so," Morgan said, drinking again. "Nobody knew Kasavulu would be hiding in the pulping house to get a crack at Dokier. The real killer wanted the panther to take the rap. So, he backtracked the cat to his tree and planted the body." Morgan leaned forward on the back of the chair. "You had no way to know Pasin would spoil my shot, and I'd have to track the animal back to his tree and find the body the same night. You figured I'd kill the beast near the house last night. By the time we found Dokier's body, plenty of other jungle animals would have removed the evidence of the stabbing. He'd be just a skeleton." Now Morgan fixed him with an icy stare. "You're the only person I've seen hereabouts who'd have a ghost of a chance of following those tracks, except me, of course."

"You're crazy. Why would I kill the man?"

"Who knows?" Morgan emptied his beer. "Maybe you're ripping him off too. Maybe when you heard what happens to people who steal from the man you decided to finish him off without delay. You did him in with a poison coated knife, didn't you. I guess some of the thing you hear about pygmies are true. His black, swollen tongue was a dead giveaway. The weird thing is, if you'd moved an hour sooner, you would never have gotten caught."

"What are you talking about?"

"You propped a rifle up in a window here, then you killed Dokier while he was picking his precious coffee beans. But before you could dispose of the body, you heard me approaching. Now if he was found right then, the poison would point to you, and there was no time to even cover your tracks. So I figure you moved fast. You changed the necessary clothes with the corpse and turned your back to me. Dokier was short, only a couple of inches taller than you. You're the only person in the area that could wear his clothes. Form the back, with your collar up and the hat on, who'd know the difference? You fooled me. Except for this." Morgan held up the safari hat and smiled. "Dokier hated wearing a hat, but he was determined to work outside. He wore this thing to protect him from the sun." Saveebe's face fell, and Morgan knew that at last he realized he was caught.

"The sun was hidden by then," The pygmy mumbled. "He would have taken the hat off as soon as the clouds moved in." The little man reached behind a cabinet and produced a handgun. "I guess I made a mistake in not killing you last night." Morgan did not react as the gun's muzzle was leveled on his head. Two other gun barrels slid in the window to Saveebe's side.

"Those two policemen outside won't hesitate to kill you, my friend. They tell me they hate pygmies. In fact Dokier, a white man, was the only one who'd give you a chance around here."

* * * * *

"I hope you're happy together," Morgan called from his battered Jeep as he was about to leave the Dokier plantation. Pasin's face fell as he came down from the porch to talk to him.

"How can we be happy? Elise enjoyed cheating on her husband, but now her heart is a shrine for him. She won't let me touch her. She won't even sell me the place."

"I guess people don't always react the way we expect," Morgan said, putting on his new safari hat.

"You're keeping the hat he was killed in?"

"She said I could," Morgan replied. "It'll remind me that you can't trust anyone. Under the right set of circumstances, any man strong enough to be a success at anything can also become a dangerous animal."

Pygmies and Whites both dwindled in Zaire until each group was only one percent of the population of that country. Morgan Stark left Zaire looking for new challenges. His wandering in Africa was temporarily chilled when, on a dare, he accepted the challenge of mountain climbing, with Kilimanjaro as the objective.

But that's another story.