We went to bed early and in the night it rained a little, not a real rain but a shower from the mountains, and in the morning we were up before daylight and had climbed up to the top of the steep grassy ridge that looked down on to the camp, on to the ravine of the river bed, and across to the steep opposite bank of the stream, and from where we could see all the hilly slopes and the edge of the forest. It was not yet light when some geese flew overhead and the light was still too grey to be able to see the edge of the forest clearly in the glasses. We had scouts out on three different hill tops and we were waiting for it to be light enough for us to see them if they signalled.
Then Pop said, ‘Look at that son of a bitch’, and shouted at M’Cola to bring the rifles. M’Cola went jumping down the hill, and across the stream, directly opposite us, a rhino was running with a quick trot along the top of the bank. As we watched he speeded up and came, fast trotting, angling down across the face of the bank. He was a muddy red, his horn showed clearly, and there was nothing ponderous in his quick, purposeful movement. I was very excited at seeing him.
‘He’ll cross the stream,’ Pop said. ‘He’s shootable.’
M’Cola put the Springfield in my hand and I opened it to make sure I had solids. The Rhino was out of sight now but I could see the shaking of the high grass.
‘How far would you call it?’
‘All of three hundred.’
‘I’ll bust the son of a bitch.’
I was watching, freezing myself deliberately inside, stopping the excitement as you close a valve, going into that impersonal state you shoot from.
He showed, trotting into the shallow, boulder-filled stream. Thinking of one thing, that the shot was perfectly possible, but that I must lead him enough, must get ahead, I got on him, then well ahead of him, and squeezed off. I heard the ‘whonk’ of the bullet and, from his trot, he seemed to explode forward. With a whooshing snort he smashed ahead, splashing water and snorting. I shot again and raised a little column of water behind him, and shot again as he went into the grass; behind him again.
‘Piga,’ M’Cola said. ‘Piga!’
Droopy agreed.
‘Did you. hit him?’ Pop said.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got him.’
Droopy was running and I re-loaded and ran off after him. Half the camp was strung out across the hills waving and yelling. The rhino had come in right below where they were and gone on up the valley towards where the forest came close down into the head of the valley.
Pop and P.O.M. came up. Pop with his big gun and M’Cola carrying mine.
‘Droopy will get the tracks,’ Pop said. ‘M’Cola swears you hit him.’
‘Piga!’ M’Cola said.
‘He snorted like a steam engine,’ P.O.M. said. ‘Didn’t he look wonderful going along there?’
‘He was late getting home with the milk,’ Pop said. ‘Are you ‘sure’ you hit him? It was a godawful long shot.’
‘I ‘know’ I hit him. I’m ‘pretty’ sure I’ve killed him.’
‘Don’t tell any one if you did,’ Pop said. ‘They’ll never believe you.
Look! Droopy’s got blood.’
Below, in the high grass, Droop was holding up a grass blade towards us. Then, stooped, he went on trailing fast by the blood spoor.
‘Piga,’ M’Cola said. ‘M’uzuri!’
‘We’ll keep up above where we can see if he makes a break,’ Pop said.
‘Look at Droopy.’
Droop had removed his fez and held it in his hand.
‘That’s all the precautions he needs,’ Pop said. ‘We bring up a couple of heavy guns and Droopy goes in after him with one article less of clothing.’
Below us Droopy and his partner who was trailing with him had stopped.
Droopy held up his hand.
‘They hear him,’ Pop said. ‘Come on.’
We started toward them. Droopy came toward us and spoke to Pop.
‘He’s in there,’ Pop whispered. ‘They can hear the tick birds. One of the boys says he heard the faro, too. We’ll go in against the wind. You go ahead with Droopy. Let the Memsahib stay behind me. Take the big gun. All right.’
The rhino was in high grass, somewhere in there behind some bushes. As we went forward we heard a deep, moaning sort of groan. Droopy looked around at me and grinned. The noise came again, ending this time like a blood-choked sigh. Droopy was laughing. ‘Faro,’ he whispered and put his hand palm open on the side of his head in the gesture that means to go to sleep. Then in a jerky-flighted, sharp-beaked little flock we saw the tick birds rise and fly away. We knew where he was and, as we went slowly forward, parting the high grass, we saw him. He was on his side, dead.
‘Better shoot him once to make sure,’ Pop said. M’Cola handed me the Springfield he had been carrying. I noticed it was cocked, looked at M’Cola, furious with him, kneeled down and shot the rhino in the sticking place. He never moved. Droopy shook my hand and so did M’Cola.
‘He had that damned Springfield cocked,’ I said to Pop. The cocked gun, behind my back, made me black angry.
That meant nothing to M’Cola. He was very happy, stroking the rhino’s horn, measuring it with his fingers spread, looking for the bullet hole.
‘It’s on the side he’s lying on,’ I said.
‘You should have seen him when he was protecting Mama,’ Pop said. ‘That’s why he had the gun cocked.’
‘Can he shoot?’
‘No,’ Pop said. ‘But he would.’
‘Shoot me in the pants,’ I said. ‘Romantic bastard.’ When the whole outfit came up, we rolled the rhino into a sort of kneeling position and cut away the grass to take some pictures. The bullet hole was fairly high in the back, a little behind the lungs.
‘That was a hell of a shot,’ Pop said. ‘A hell of a shot. Don’t ever tell any one you made that one.’
‘You’ll have to give me a certificate.’
‘That would just make us both liars. They’re a strange beast, aren’t they?’
There he was, long-hulked, heavy-sided, prehistoric looking, the hide like vulcanized rubber and faintly transparent looking, scarred with a badly healed horn wound that the birds had pecked at, his tail thick, round, and pointed, flat many-legged ticks crawling on him, his ears fringed with hair, tiny pig eyes, moss growing on the base of his horn that grew out forward from his nose. M’Cola looked at him and shook his head. I agreed with him.
This was the hell of an animal.
‘How is his horn?’
‘It isn’t bad,’ Pop said. ‘It’s nothing extra. That was a hell of a shot you made on him though, brother.’
‘M’Cola’s pleased with it,’ I said.
‘You’re pretty pleased with it yourself,’ P.O.M. said.
‘I’m crazy about it,’ I said. ‘But don’t let me start on it. Don’t worry about how I feel about it. I can wake up and think about that any night.’
‘And you’re a good tracker, and a hell of a fine bird shot, too,’ Pop said. ‘Tell us the rest of that.’
‘Lay off me. I only said that once when I was drunk.’
‘Once,’ said P.O.M. ‘Doesn’t he tell us that every night?’
‘By God, I ‘am’ a good bird shot.’
‘Amazing,’ said Pop. ‘I never would have thought it. What else is it you do?’
‘Oh, go to hell.’
‘Mustn’t ever let him realize what a shot that was or he’ll get unbearable,’ Pop said to P.O.M.
‘M’Cola and I know,’ I said.
M’Cola came up. ‘M’uzuri, B’wana,’ he said. ‘M’uzuri sana.’
‘He thinks you did it on purpose,’ Pop said.
‘Don’t you ever tell him different.’
‘Piga m’uzuri,’ M’Cola said. ‘M’uzuri.’
‘I believe he feels just the way you do about it,’ Pop said.
‘He’s my pal.’
‘I believe he is, you know,’ Pop said.
On our way back across country to our main camp I made a fancy shot on a reedbuck at about two hundred yards, offhand, breaking his neck at the base of the skull. M’Cola was very pleased and Droopy was delighted.
‘We’ve got to put a stop to him,’ Pop said to P.O.M. ‘Where did you shoot for, really?’
‘In the neck,’ I lied. I had held full on the centre of the shoulder.
‘It was awfully pretty,’ P.O.M. said. The bullet had made a crack when it hit like a bat swung against a fast ball and the buck had collapsed without a move.
‘I think he’s a damned liar,’ Pop said.
‘None of us great shots is appreciated. Wait till we’re gone.’
‘His idea of being appreciated is for us to carry him on our shoulders,’ Pop said. ‘That rhino shot has ruined him.’
‘All right. You watch from now on. Hell, I’ve shot well the whole time.’
‘I seem to remember a grant of some sort,’ Pop was teasing. So did I remember him. I’d followed a fine one out of the country missing shot after shot all morning after a series of stalks in the heat, then crawled up to an ant hill to shoot one that was not nearly as good, taken a rest on the ant hill, missed the buck at fifty yards, seen him stand facing me, absolutely still, his nose up, and shot him in the chest. He went over backwards and as I went
