‘Bugs,’ I said to M’Cola in Swahili, speaking with strong disapproval.
‘No,’ he said, dismissing the idea. ‘No bugs.’
‘Bad bugs. Many bugs. Sickness.’
‘No bugs,’ he said firmly.
The no-bugs had it and with the Roman talking steadily, I hoped on some congenial topic, the car came up, stopped under a huge tree about fifty yards from the thorn-bush fence and they all commenced carrying the necessities in for the making of camp. My ground-sheet tent was slung between a tree and one side of the chicken coop and I sat down on a petrol case to discuss the shooting situation with the Roman, the old man, and Garrick, while Kamau and M’Cola fixed up a camp and the Wanderobo-Masai stood on one leg and let his mouth hang open.
‘Where were kudu?’
‘Back there,’ waving his arm.
‘Big ones?’
Arms spread to show hugeness of horns and a torrent from the Roman.
Me, dictionary-ing heavily, ‘Where was the one they were watching?’
No results on this but a long speech from the Roman which I took to mean they were watching them all.
It was late afternoon now and the sky was heavy with clouds. I was wet to the waist and my socks were mud soaked. Also I was sweating from pushing on the car and from chopping.
‘When do we start?’ I asked.
‘To-morrow,’ Garrick answered without bothering to question the Roman.
‘No,’ I said. To-night.’
‘To-morrow,’ Garrick said. ‘Late now. One hour light.’ He showed me one hour on my watch.
I dictionaried. ‘Hunt to-night. Last hour best hour.’
Garrick implied that the kudu were too far away. That it was impossible to hunt and return, all this with gestures, ‘Hunt to-morrow’.
‘You bastard,’ I said in English. All this time the Roman and the old man had been standing saying nothing. I shivered. It was cold with the sun under the clouds in spite of the heaviness of the air after rain.
‘Old man,’ I said.
‘Yes, Master,’ said the old man. Dictionary-ing carefully, I said,
‘Hunt kudu to-night. Last hour best hour. Kudu close?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Hunt now?’
They talked together.
‘Hunt to-morrow,’ Garrick put in.
‘Shut up, you actor,’ I said. ‘Old man. Little hunt now?’
‘Yes,’ said the old man and Roman nodded. ‘Little while.’
‘Good,’ I said, and went to find a shirt and undershirt and a pair of socks.
‘Hunt now,’ I told M’Cola.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘M’uzuri.’
With the clean feeling of dry shirt, fresh socks and a change of boots I sat on the petrol case and drank a whisky and water while I waited for the Roman to come back. I felt certain I was going to have a shot at kudu and I wanted to take the edge off so I would not be nervous. Also I wanted not to catch a cold. Also I wanted the whisky for itself, because I loved the taste of it and because, being as happy as I could be, it made me feel even better.
I saw the Roman coming and I pulled the zippers up on my boots, checked the cartridges in the magazine of the Springfield, took off the foresight protector and blew through the rear aperture. Then I drank what was left in the tin cup that was on the ground by the box and stood up, checking that I had a pair of handkerchiefs in my shirt pockets.
M’Cola came carrying his knife and Pop’s big glasses.
‘You stay here,’ I said to Garrick. He did not mind. He thought we were silly to go out so late and he was glad to prove us wrong. The Wanderobo wanted to go.
‘That’s plenty,’ I said, and waved the old man back and we started out of the corral with the Roman ahead, carrying a spear, then me, then M’Cola with glasses and the Mannlicher, full of solids, and last the Wanderobo-Masai with another spear.
It was after five when we struck off across the maize field and down to the stream, crossing where it narrowed in a high grass a hundred yards above the dam and then, walking slowly and carefully, went up the grassy bank on the far side, getting soaked to the waist as we stooped going through the wet grass and bracken. We had not been gone ten minutes and were moving carefully up the stream bank, when, without warning, the Roman grabbed my arm and pulled me bodily down to the ground as he crouched; me pulling back the bolt to cock the rifle as I dropped. Holding his breath he pointed and across the stream on the far bank at the edge of the trees was a large, grey animal, white stripes showing on his flanks and huge horns curling back from his head as he stood, broadside to us, head up, seeming to be listening. I raised the rifle, but there was a bush in the way of the shot. I could not shoot over the bush without standing.
‘Piga,’ whispered M’Cola. I shook my finger and commenced to crawl forward to be clear of the bush, sick afraid the bull would jump while I was trying to make the shot certain, but remembering Pop’s ‘Take your time’.
When I saw I was clear I got on one knee, saw the bull through the aperture, marvelling at how big he looked, and then, remembering not to have it matter, that it was the same as any other shot, I saw the bead centred exactly where it should be just below the top of the shoulder and squeezed off. At the roar he jumped and was going into the brush, but I knew I had hit him.
I shot at a show of grey between the trees as he went in and M’Cola was shouting, ‘Piga! Piga!’ meaning ‘He’s hit! He’s hit!’ and the Roman was slapping me on the shoulder, then he had his toga up around his neck and was running naked, and the four of us were running now, full speed, like hounds, splashing across the stream, tearing up the bank, the Roman ahead, crashing naked through the brush, then stooping and holding up a leaf with bright blood, slamming me on the back, M’Cola saying, ‘Damu! Damu!’ (blood, blood), then the deep cut tracks off to the right, me reloading, we all trailing in a dead run, it almost dark in the timber, the Roman, confused a moment by the trail, making a cast off to the right, then picking up blood once more, then pulling me down again with a jerk on my arm and none of us breathing as we saw him standing in a clearing a hundred yards ahead, looking to me hard-hit and looking back, wide ears spread, big, grey, white-striped, his horns a marvel, as he looked straight toward us over his shoulder.
I thought I must make absolutely sure this time, now, with the dark coming and I held my breath and shot him a touch behind the fore-shoulder. We heard the bullet smack and saw him buck heavily with the shot. M’Cola shouted, ‘Piga! Piga! Piga!’ as he went out of sight and as we ran again, like hounds, we almost fell over something. It was a huge, beautiful kudu bull, stone-dead, on his side, his horns in great dark spirals, widespread and unbelievable as he lay dead five yards from where we stood when I had just that instant shot.
I looked at him, big, long-legged, a smooth grey with the white stripes and the great curling, sweeping horns, brown as walnut meats, and ivory pointed, at the big ears and the great, lovely heavy-maned neck, the white chevron between his eyes and the white of his muzzle and I stooped over and touched him to try to believe it. He was lying on the side where the bullet had gone in and there was not a mark on him and he smelled sweet and lovely like the breath of cattle and the odour of thyme after rain.
Then the Roman had his arms around my neck and M’Cola was shouting in a strange high sing-song voice and Wanderobo-Masai kept slapping me on the shoulder and jumping up and down and then one after the other they all shook hands in a strange way that I had never known in which they took your thumb in their fist and held it and shook it and pulled it and held it again, while they looked you in the eyes, fiercely.
We all looked at him and M’Cola knelt and traced the curve of his horns with his finger and measured the spread with his arms and kept crooning, ‘Oo-oo-eee-eee’, making small high noises of ecstasy and stroking the kudu’s muzzle and his mane.
I slapped the Roman on the back and we went through the thumb-pulling again, me pulling his thumb too. I embraced the Wanderobo-Masai and he, after a thumb-pulling of great intensity and feeling, slapped his chest and said very proudly, ‘Wanderobo-Masai wonderful guide’.
‘Wanderobo-Masai wonderful Masai,’ I said.
M’Cola kept shaking his head, looking at the kudu and making the strange small noises. Then he said, ‘Doumi, Doumi, Doumi! B’wana Kabor Kidogo, Kidogo’. Meaning this was a bull of bulls. That Karl’s had been a little one, a nothing.
We all knew we had killed the other
