His shoulders slumped. There had been a time, of course, a couple of years back when he was only seventeen, when all he had asked of life was a horse and a gun. A time when he would leap into his saddle and gallop off at the slightest excuse, even if it was only a Bantu female reporting attempted rape at a beer party. These sorties into the reserve had seldom come to anything—inevitably the party would have been disbanded before his arrival on the scene—but it had been showing a police presence that mattered, and the Bantu had appreciated this. On about as many occasions, they had tried to force roasted mealies and other small gifts on him, and, to a man, they had always praised his fine horsemanship. The bugger of it was, however, that every time Willie had gone off like this, in one direction, then something far more serious would have to happen in another direction, and he’d return to find Sergeant Jonkers climbing the wall of the charge office. And so, except for his early-morning exercise, Willie had cut right down on horse-riding, and had been bored almost to tears by a coincidental drop in the crime rate during the weekends he was on duty.
