John Henry reined in his horse and cast a worried look up at the sky. No rains had fallen yet this season, and the land was dry and parched as it waited for the life-giving waters to fall from the heavens. There had been delays before, of course, and genuine droughts. John Henry had lost his cherished farm to one such dry spell and had never really had the heart to go back to that dream until the bitterness leached from his heart and there was no fear of it contaminating the earth he would draw life from.

At the moment, nothing was growing. The grass had been bleached to nothingness, dust covering everything in a red veil which caught at the throat and made everyone irritable. The animals on the Hayes and Sinclair Game Ranch fared better than the true wild ones, the Wing Commander having had the forethought to sink boreholes and build windmills to draw up precious water from the artesian basin far beneath the cracked surface. Their animals stuck close to the artificial waterholes, but unfortunately those same sources of life-giving moisture were attracting game from outside the ranch, and in their wake came the predators.

Lions had brought John Henry out to this isolated waterhole close to the boundary of the ranch. He had caught some lion spoor when he had made a sweep out this way the day before yesterday, and he had decided to come back and check that the situation wasn't getting too out of hand. Natural predation had been taken into account by Hayes when he had first dreamt up his master plan, but when a drought hit, predators tended to concentrate on sources of water and the natural ratio of predator to prey became disrupted. If more than one pride of lions decided to target this part of the ranch, they could lose a large percentage of their stock in a terrifyingly short time.

He'd found one pride, made up of two males and five females. They were strangers to him, but none of the females were nursing and the males were quite young, so they would probably move on once the rains came. Right now he was making a longer sweep to make sure that there wasn't another collection of lions settling in. The resident pride of lions which considered the ranch their territory were based a considerable distance to the north and would be targeting another set of animals, so if this other pride was the only one around, the Navajo would be able to report to Sinclair that the situation was still under control.

Except that he didn't think that was the case, any more. Another wary look up into the sky didn't persuade him any different. The clouds had been hanging around for several weeks, now, bringing the promise of rain without delivering any, and people were used to glancing up and cursing absently at them before going on with whatever they were doing. Right now, however, they were looking more threatening than before, an eerie green tinge highlighting the dull white and smoky grey. They also seemed to be writhing against the sky, an inner turbulence arguing at some kind of force acting on them. Too close to the elements to ignore such an obvious warning, John Henry gentled the nervous fretting of the bay he had chosen to ride that morning and wished he hadn't come so far from the ranch. He had a feeling something was going to happen.

The first pillar of lightning snapped from sky to ground in an eye-searing blaze of blue incandescence. Even though he had been expecting something to happen, the Amerindian still jumped and was almost unseated when his horse reared in wild agitation at the huge boom of thunder which seemed to rip the world apart. He corrected his seat automatically and shortened the reins, slipping his feet out of the stirrups when it seemed as if the bay was going to go over backwards and a fast evacuation might be called for. His attempts to soothe the animal's fright were frustrated as more and more lightning strikes happened all around them, the thunder coming so often and close together that it was impossible to think, let along be heard.

A tree close by suddenly seemed to explode into flaming shards which arced up and around it, the drumbeat roar of the sky sounding like a shout of triumph. The horse went mad, rearing and bucking at the same time in an effort to rid himself of the human which was trying to hold him in this place of light and terror. John Henry felt himself lose his balance, his centre of balance destroyed by the unorthodox movement. He sensibly decided not to try and put off the inevitable and quit the horse's back in a controlled jump. What he had not planned on was the horse to decide to lash out in blind terror, the rear hooves connecting as the bay twisted away.

With all the breath knocked out of him and his controlled fall aborted, the young Navajo hit the ground a lot harder than he had intended, the back of his head striking a rock. The receding hoofbeats of his horse combined with the immortal herds thundering across the sky until the sound reached down inside his very soul and swept him away like a leaf in a river.

oooOooo

"Will you please relax, Jim? I'm jumpy enough without you making me think that I have good reason to believe all the wild scenarios my imagination is supplying me with!"

Sinclair paused in mid-pace and shot Hayes a shamefaced look which still had an element of defiance in it. The sight of Samson hovering uncertainly to one side made him choke back the hot words which rose unbidden to his lips and he forced himself to take in several deep breaths.

"I'm sorry, but it's not like John Henry to be this late when all he said he was going to do was make a quick scouting trip. With all the trouble we've been having with poachers, and that damn Indian's talent for attracting trouble, it's tough not to jump to conclusions."

"The Kenya Rifles bagged quite a few hunters the other week," the Wing Commander pointed out. "It's unlikely that the others would be so foolish as so be out so soon after such a coup by the authorities, and they'd certainly know better than to trespass on our ranch. You and John Henry have started to garner quite a reputation for putting poachers out of business!"

That's what worries me, Sinclair fretted silently, but kept silent for fear of upsetting Samson. "I just wish he'd taken a radio," he said instead.

Hayes snorted. "They've been next to useless with all the electrical activity in the atmosphere and you know it. John Henry's impatient enough with our dependence on technology as it is. He wouldn't waste time taking a machine he already knew wasn't going to work."

"It would still have made me feel better," Sinclair muttered.

Sometimes he thought John Henry went out of his way to scare him senseless with some harebrained scheme or crazy stunt. Because the Amerindian often displayed a wisdom and maturity beyond his years, Jim frequently forgot how much younger he was. Young, impetuous and convinced of his own immortality. Older, and a hell of a lot more paranoid, Sinclair was less willing to trust to the Great Spirit and his overworked omniscience.

"We'll leave it a little longer," Hayes said soothingly, "then we'll go after the young idiot and haul him back by his ear," he finished crisply. When Sinclair gave him a startled look, the Englishman gave a chuckle. "What, you think you have the corner on worrying yourself silly about him? At least he told us where he was going this morning. Murrey Waterhole is one of the furthest, but the land around it is pretty clear and open. I doubt if even John Henry could find much in the way of trouble out there!"

oooOooo

A different kind of roaring welcomed John Henry back to the land of the living. He gazed up at a sky where lightning now played like overexcited dragons in and out of the boiling clouds, trying to remember what had happened. Details escaped him, diving into a fog just as tangled and turbulent as the clouds, but he remembered that he had fallen off the bay and hit his head. Reaching up with a cautious hand, he encountered a bump which sent a smart message to his brain that it didn't like being touched, thank you very much, and any more prods like that and John Henry would be going back to sleep pretty quick.

Closing his eyes and swallowing in an effort to alleviate the nausea, the young Amerindian listened to the rustling roar which had been around him ever since he had awoken and realised that it wasn't thunder. That had a rhythm, a surge and fall to it which caught at the heart and made you want to scream in excited counterpoint. This was more like the sound of surf, or wind roaring through trees and stirring them to a dance. It was almost continuous and yet it always seemed on the verge of dying into a whispering silence.

Once the internal gyrations in his head had eased, John Henry made another attempt at opening his eyes. This time he had learned his lesson and moved with slow caution, rolling over and pushing himself up on to his knees, closing his eyes while he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Only when he was sure that he wasn't going to pass out again did he risk looking around himself....

.... and found himself staring at a wall of flame which was steadily advancing on him.

For a second he could do nothing but stare, unable to take in what he was seeing. Fear flashed into being, then, threatening to drive him to his feet in panic before he bolted away from the approaching death. A warning wave of dizziness made him freeze as he gathered himself. If he tried to jump to his feet in his present condition, he would promptly faint and the very fate he sought to escape would be his for certain.

He forced himself to take several deep breaths as he studied his situation. The lightning had kindled the tinder-dry grass and the wind was fanning it in his direction. His horse was nowhere to be seen and while the fire wasn't moving all that fast, John Henry doubted that he would be able to outrun it for long. His head was still swimming from the blow and even if that didn't slow him down, the heat probably would. Without his horse, he had lost his rifle and his water, the two essentials out in the wilds of Africa.

Water? The Navajo's head cleared rapidly as he suddenly saw his way out of this death-trap. Murrey Waterhole was less than a mile away and while it wasn't particularly large or deep, it might be enough to keep him safe from the encroaching flames. To think was to act. The nearest flames were less than a couple of hundred yards from him, now, and John Henry quite liked the idea of a head start on something as capricious as fire.

His head swam and his eyes blurred as he struggled to his feet, but he refused to give in, knowing that hesitation was just as sure a killer as ignorance. Setting his teeth, he orientated himself as best he could and set out determinedly, refusing to let the hissing language of the flames spook him into setting to fast a pace and trying to ignore the inner voice which reminded him of the fires which could sweep the deserts of his childhood home back in America and which regularly claimed the lives of unwary travellers. While he might not have been born to this land, he understood it and had never given it cause to be angry at him. He would find the water and be safe from the fire. He believed that implicitly and drew the knowledge about him like a blanket which could shield him from the hungry kisses of the fire.

oooOooo

Sinclair swore as Hayes jammed on the brakes of the jeep and leapt out of the vehicle before it had stopped moving properly. The bay horse shied violently away from his attempts to wave it to a halt, swerving around him and continuing its mad gallop back in the direction of the ranch house. Jim turned to watch it recede, his jaw tightening as he took in the sweat-lathered sides and the way the eyes rolled, white and ugly with a panic which still drove the animal beyond its ability to remember that humans were supposed to mean safety.

"Right, let's move it!" he snapped as he slid back into the passenger seat of the jeep, knowing better than to try and wrest the wheel away from Hayes.

The Englishman promptly floored the accelerator, driving the jeep along at what was a stupidly risky speed. Sinclair hung on for grim life and refused to say anything. Ahead of them the sky was hung with menacing clouds which almost seemed to reach down and touch the ground. A couple of minutes later, and Sinclair straightened in his seat and started cursing as he realised that he hadn't been imagining things. Clouds were rising from the ground, and that meant only one thing.

The bane of any drought-stricken land, but particularly deadly in this part of Kenya, where so many people depended on so little arable land and where large rivers were few and far between. A fire could rage for thousands of miles and kill hundreds of people, as well as claiming their crops and livestock. When it came after a period where no rain had fallen and the water table was low, the damage could be even more devastating.

All that passed through Sinclair's mind in a matter of seconds, but all he could think of was that John Henry's horse had come in a dead-straight course directly away from that terrifying wall of smoke.

Hayes was still driving like a madman, but Sinclair had little doubt that he had seen the smoke and he knew he was right when the Englishman reached out to unhook the jeep radio-mic and handed it to Jim without taking his eyes off the terrain ahead. "Radio the ranch," he ordered. "Tell the foreman what's happening and to organise the dousing of the ranch buildings and getting the animals to safety. And to warn Caldwell. Gods knows how far this can go."

Sinclair nodded and activated the radio, praying that the atmospheric disturbances which had made communications impossible over the last few weeks would let up long enough for him to get the warning through. The ranch had several deep boreholes which drew up arterial water and they had enough of a supply to drench the buildings and the surrounding land so that the fire wouldn't be able to gain a foothold. Whether the men left behind would be able to cope with the animals which would panic when they sensed the fire coming was another matter, but Keni, their foreman, had a steady head and was experienced in such matters. He wouldn't need Sinclair to spell out the potential trouble which lay ahead.

oooOooo

It took his falling into the waterhole to realise that he had reached it. John Henry inhaled a mouthful of water and the darkness which had been invading his mind was banished by the bright blaze of panic which flared into life when he realised he couldn't breathe. He flailed about, turning over and finding hot air waiting for his gasping lungs. Choking up the water he had taken in, he sat up and looked around him worriedly, not having realised how badly concussed he had been. It was a miracle he had kept the direction he had originally started out on and hadn't strayed into the fire's path.

The fire was frighteningly close. The wind had picked up during the time he had switched off, freshening just enough to increase the speed of the fire wall until it must have been on his heels as he arrived at the waterhole. Feeling the heat striking against his face, the Amerindian got to his feet and waded further into the waterhole, heading for the deepest part in the centre. Once he felt his feet beginning to leave the mud beneath them, he paused and ducked under the surface of the water, thoroughly soaking himself and hoping against hope that the fire wouldn't get any worse. In a way, the very drought which had begun this disaster had also seen to it that it couldn't get really bad. The grass which was so tinder dry was also extremely sparse and there wasn't enough around to feed a really bad fire.

Which didn't mean that the one he was facing couldn't kill him, if he was careless. By the time the flames had reached the cracked mud fringes of the waterhole, the heat was ferocious, and John Henry had to keep ducking back under the water to prevent himself from passing out. Breathing was difficult as the flames, balked by the water, began to spread around the entire circumference of the pool, the oxygen being sucked up by the raging elemental as it strove to grow and increase.

Time, never something he was very good at measuring in the white way, returned to its fluid natural rhythm and John Henry sank into the eternal now, concentrating only on the need to stay alive and keep himself wet and safe, one element shielding him from another. The roar of the flames filled his world, muted and transformed whenever his head went beneath the surface, but always there.

Gradually, however, the fire's hunting-song started to fade, and after each dousing in the water, John Henry felt the air against his face begin to cool. The fire had completely encircled the waterhole and was now moving away from him, leaving blackened and charred land behind it but also conceding his life to him. The land had shielded him, as he had hoped, and he was safe. Wading a little way back towards the shore until the water only came up to his waist, John Henry settled down to wait until the fire had moved away enough and for the ground to cool enough to walk on. The sky above him looked like old iron and he didn't think it would be too long before the rain came to quench the flames and restore the land.

He didn't know how long he had waited but he eventually decided that the time was right and he got to his feet, leaving the waterhole and trailing in the wake of the fire. The scorched trail was the safest place to be, since there was nothing to feed the flames again if the wind should decide to change and bring the fire back in this direction. The ground was still hot and smoking, making him cough as his throat dried and the acrid tang caught at it, but it was passable and he wanted to get back to the ranch as soon as possible, before Jim and the Commander went completely crazy with worry when his riderless horse turned up.

His head still ached and he was nervously aware that his vision occasionally showed a tendency to splinter, but he consoled himself with the fact that he was still aware enough to notice the symptoms and didn't have to worry about doing anything too strenuous in the immediate future. He was just going to have to walk a fair distance, something he didn't particularly like the thought of, but something which wasn't likely to kill him. He'd had worse to cope with in the past.

oooOooo

Sinclair did his best to remember how tough John Henry was, how good he was at surviving seemingly impossible odds, but all he could think of as he paced restlessly around the lounge of the ranch was the wall of fire he and Hayes had been forced to retreat before, and the fact that John Henry's horse had come from the point where the fire had already swept over. A horse wouldn't swerve into the path of a blaze like that; it would either move away or run directly in front of it. Somewhere behind that sheet of flame could be the burned remains of his young friend and partner and the thought was more than he could bear.

"Haven't you heard anything yet!" he snapped at Hayes when the Englishman entered the room and collapsed tiredly into a convenient chair. They were all tired, having been busy preparing for the arrival of the fire and trying to do everything possible to contain the potential damage.

"Caldwell called. He's going to send a plane up to gauge the extent of the blaze, but he thinks it unlikely that we'll be able to do much about searching for John Henry until after it's been contained."

"By which time it could be too late!" Sinclair raged.

"Jim, much though we hate the thought, there's more at stake here than the life of one man," Sinclair argued tiredly. "Caldwell has to think about everyone, even though John Henry is a friend. He'll do whatever he can, you know that, but you can't expect him to shirk his duty."

Sinclair growled angrily and stalked over to stare unseeingly out of the window. He knew that the Wing Commander was correct, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. "It's just that.... I've seen what a bush fire can do, back in the US," he admitted. "No matter how good you are, there's no way you can survive the flames if you're caught out in the open."

"I know," Hayes said softly. "I've lived in this country a good portion of my life, remember? I know how cruel it can be. You must have faith in John Henry, Jim, and pray that he's all right."

Pray? Sinclair thought to himself. What the hell do you think I've been doing ever since this mess started? He said nothing, though. A private individual, he let few people see his vulnerable inner self. Right now, the one person he had let all the way in and had never regretted doing so might be lying dead out on a blasted grassland and the thought was more than he could bear.

"I'm going out to check the animals," he said abruptly, turning on his heel and leaving.

Hayes watched him go, knowing that the animals had already been checked several times. He said nothing, however, knowing that Sinclair had to feel that he was doing something, no matter how useless the task. It was either that, or let the fear run wild.

oooOooo

The air tasted of death and John Henry automatically swerved around the charred bodies he found in his path. Most of the animals had managed to get clear of the fire, but the weak and the injured had been less fortunate. Wishing he felt a little less weak himself, the Navajo continued to push on, even though he wanted nothing more than to just lie down on the ashy ground and go to sleep. His head felt like the main drum at a pow wow and his throat was dry after breathing in the soot and dust which loaded the air.

A breeze came from nowhere and scattered burnt twigs and ash everywhere. Breathing in incautiously, John Henry started coughing hard, his entire body shaking as he tried to clear his throat. The dizziness was back, rising and falling through him like the waves of the ocean they had crossed while coming from America to Africa. John Henry had vague memories of being violently ill until his body had learned the adapt to the rhythms of this new environment, and right now the same deep nausea threatened to bring him to his knees.

He didn't know how long it took him to recover, but gradually the dark mists which had obscured his vision began to fade and the outside world returned to him. Carefully shielding his eyes and mouth, he peered about himself and saw that the wind was still playing catch as catch with the earth, drawing up the dust and ash into wind-devils and sending them dancing across the ground. Thunder was sending drumbeats through the clouds, but the lightning had withdrawn into their depths, the brilliance dimmed and diffused into a shivering glow which lightened the iron grey and black to silver and pewter.

Raising his bandanna to cover his mouth and nose, John Henry mentally shrugged and moved on. The ground he was walking on was beginning to cool, now, and the smoke from the fire was some way ahead of him. Even if the wind did decide to change direction, there would be nothing for the flames to feed on. The same inner sense which told him he was heading directly for the ranch house also told him that he still had quite a way to go and the sooner he got on with it, the quicker he would get back to a warm bath, some cold water and the inevitable lecture from Sinclair.

The first impact didn't really register. It wasn't until he had been hit several times that John Henry belatedly realised that it was starting to rain. He raised a grateful face to the sky, then gave a yelp as the clouds abruptly opened and disgorged a waterfall of moisture. The force was enough to send him staggering a little, but he continued to stand where he was and let the water cleanse him of the smoke and fear.

After a while it occurred to him that he wasn't getting very far like this and reluctantly moved on again. At least the rain had settled the dust, flattening it back to the ground like a lion keeping a mouse in place with one paw. The ashes and dust was soon converted into mud and John Henry started to tire as he slogged on. That warm bath was beginning to look more and more inviting by the minute.

The sound of a jeep belatedly registered and the Navajo looked up in time to see the vehicle in question change direction and career towards him. He watched a little warily as it braked to a halt close by, then walked towards it. Caldwell was sitting in the driver's seat and stared at him as though seeing a ghost.

"You're still alive, then," he commented.

John Henry blinked at him and considered the question for a couple of minutes before he nodded. "Uh-huh."

"You had a lot of people worried about you," Caldwell continued in exasperation.

"Sorry."

"Oh, for-" Caldwell gave up and gave him an exuberant punch on the arm. "Glad to see you're still in one piece,

John Henry. Hayes and Sinclair will be waiting for you at the ranch."

"Yeah," John Henry agreed vaguely. "I'd better get going." He started to walk away, then paused and turned back inquiringly at Caldwell's impatient hail. "What?"

"I said, get in the jeep, you daft young idiot! I didn't mean for you to walk back!"

"Oh. Sorry."

John Henry turned and squelched his way back to the jeep and climbed in. He was dimly aware of Caldwell giving him a concerned look as the Navajo curled up on some damp sheeting at the back of the vehicle, but to be honest, he just didn't care. The bath could wait; what he wanted was a nice, warm, dry bed.

oooOooo

Sinclair nearly had a heart attack when he went out to see why Caldwell had come back, only to find an unconscious John Henry in the back of the jeep. He and Caldwell managed to get him indoors, where Hayes took over and dismissed them while he examined the young Indian. While they were waiting, Caldwell filled Sinclair in on what had happened.

"-I swear he would have walked back here if I hadn't yelled at him!" the District Officer finished in exasperation. "Don't look so worried, Jim. I'm betting it's just a mild concussion."

"I hope so," Sinclair fretted, then swung round to face Hayes as he came back into the lounge. "Well?"

"I have Samson keeping an eye on him, but I don't think we need worry too much," Hayes soothed, going over to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a stiff gin and tonic. "He has a beautiful bump on the back of his head, a sore throat and he was soaked to the skin, but nothing more serious than that."

"Concussion?" Sinclair asked, shooting a concerned look at Caldwell.

"Possibly, although a mild one. That's why I have Samson watching him for the moment and I'll get back as soon as I've reassured you two. What I think he really needs is a nice long sleep, a hot bath when he wakes up and a decent meal inside him."

Sinclair felt himself relax and gave the Wing Commander a sheepish smile that the Englishman accepted with a knowing look. No matter how many times it happened, Sinclair could never keep from worrying whenever his young friend was in trouble or missing. They'd been through too much together and in many ways John Henry was closer to Jim than any of his blood relations.

"I'll spell you after I've made a check on the animals," he offered.

Caldwell put down his empty glass and picked up his hat. "Well, I'm glad everything turned out for the best," he said briskly. "The rain has already put out the worst of the fire and looks to be putting an end to the drought, as well, so I'd better get back to work. I'll see you later."

Sinclair followed the other man out to send him off, then stood outside for a moment, savouring the steady fall of rain and the cool freshness it brought with it. Pretty soon they would probably be cursing the mud but for now it was a relief to be free of the ever-present dust. He'd check on the animals, tell Keni that the fire was no longer a problem and then grab a bite to eat before going to take over from the Wing Commander. While he was waiting for John Henry to wake up, he would have time to compose a short, pithy lecture on the perils of frightening the wits out of the senior partner of their relationship. Not that John Henry would listen, of course, but Sinclair would feel better for having said it, if only because the Indian was alive and well enough to answer back!

oooOooo