“Get that other,” Wilson said. “Now you’re shooting!”
But the other bull was moving steadily at the same gallop and he missed, throwing a spout of dirt, and Wilson missed and the dust rose in a cloud and Wilson shouted, “Come on. He’s too far!” and grabbed his arm and they were in the car again, Macomber and Wilson hanging on the sides and rocketing swayingly over the uneven ground, drawing up on the steady, plunging, heavy-necked, straight-moving gallop of the bull.
They were behind him and Macomber was filling his rifle, dropping shells onto the ground, jamming it, clearing the jam, then they were almost up with the bull when Wilson yelled “Stop,” and the car skidded so that it almost swung over and Macomber fell forward onto his feet, slammed his bolt forward and fired as far forward as he could aim into the galloping, rounded black back, aimed and shot again, then again, then again, and the bullets, all of them hitting, had no effect on the buffalo that he could see. Then Wilson shot, the roar deafening him, and he could see the bull stagger. Macomber shot again, aiming carefully, and down he came, onto his knees.
“All right,” Wilson said. “Nice work. That’s the three.”
Macomber felt a drunken elation.
“How many times did you shoot?” he asked.
“Just three,” Wilson said. “You killed the first bull. The biggest one. I helped you finish the other two. Afraid they might have got into cover. You had them killed. I was just mopping up a little. You shot damn well.” “Let’s go to the car,” said Macomber. “I want a drink.” “Got to finish off that buff first,” Wilson told him. The buffalo was on his knees and he jerked his head furiously and bellowed in pig-eyed, roaring rage as they came toward him.
“Watch he doesn’t get up,” Wilson said. Then, “Get a little broadside and take him in the neck just behind the ear.”
Macomber aimed carefully at the center of the huge, jerking, rage-driven neck and shot. At the shot the head dropped forward.
“That does it,” said Wilson. “Got the spine. They’re a hell of a looking thing, aren’t they?”
“Let’s get the drink,” said Macomber. In his life he had never felt so good.
In the car Macomber’s wife sat very white-faced. “You were marvellous, darling,” she said to Macomber. “What a ride.”
“Was it rough?” Wilson asked.
“It was frightful. I’ve never been more frightened in my life.”
“Let’s all have a drink,” Macomber said.
“By all means,” said Wilson. “Give it to the Memsahib.” She drank the neat whisky from the flask and shuddered a little when she swallowed. She handed the flask to Macomber who handed it to Wilson.
“It was frightfully exciting,” she said. “It’s given me a dreadful headache. I didn’t know you were allowed to shoot them from cars though.
“No one shot from cars,” said Wilson coldly.
“I mean chase them from cars.”
“Wouldn’t ordinarily,” Wilson said. “Seemed sporting enough to me though while we were doing it. Taking more chance driving that way across the plain full of holes and one thing and another than hunting on foot. Buffalo could have charged us each time we shot if he liked. Gave him every chance. Wouldn’t mention it to any one though. It’s illegal if that’s what you mean.”
“It seemed very unfair to me,” Margot said, “chasing those big helpless things in a motor car.”
“Did it?” said Wilson.
“What would happen if they heard about it in Nairobi?”
“I’d lose my licence for one thing. Other unpleasantnesses,” Wilson said, taking a drink from the flask. “I’d be out of business.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Well,” said Macomber, and he smiled for the first time all day. “Now she has something on you.”
“You have such a pretty way of putting things, Francis,” Margot Macomber said. Wilson looked at them both. If a four-letter man marries a five-letter woman, he was thinking, what number of letters would their children be? What he said was, “We lost a gun-bearer. Did you notice it?”
“My God, no,” Macomber said.
“Here he comes,” Wilson said. “He’s all right. He must have fallen off when we left the first bull.”
Approaching them was the middle-aged gun-bearer, limping along in his knitted cap, khaki tunic, shorts and rubber sandals, gloomy-faced and disgusted looking. As he came up he called out to Wilson in Swahili and they all saw the change in the white hunter’s face.
“What does he say?” asked Margot.
“He says the first bull got up and went into the bush,” Wilson said with no expression in his voice.
“Oh,” said Macomber blankly.
“Then it’s going to be just like the lion,” said Margot, rull of anticipation.
“It’s not going to be a damned bit like the lion,” Wilson told her. “Did you want another drink, Macomber?”
“Thanks, yes,” Macomber said. He expected the feeling he had had about the lion to come back but it did not. For the first time in his life he really felt wholly without fear. Instead of fear he had a feeling of definite elation.
“We’ll go and have a look at the second bull,” Wilson said. “I’ll tell the driver to put the car in the shade.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Margaret Macomber.
“Take a look at the buff,” Wilson said.
“I’ll come.”
“Come along.”
The three of them walked over to where the second buffalo bulked blackly in the open, head forward on the grass, the massive horns swung wide.
“He’s a very good head,” Wilson said. “That’s dose to a fifty-inch spread.”
Macomber was looking at him with delight.
“He’s hateful looking,” said Margot. “Can’t we go into the shade?”
“Of course,” Wilson said. “Look,” he said to Macomber, and pointed. “See that patch of bush?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where the first bull went in. The gun-bearer said when he fell off the bull was down. He was watching us helling along and the other two buff galloping. When he looked up there was the bull up and looking at him. Gun-bearer ran like hell and the bull went off slowly into that bush.”
“Can we go in after him now?” asked Macomber eagerly.
Wilson looked at him appraisingly. Damned if this isn’t a strange one, he thought. Yesterday he’s scared sick and today he’s a ruddy fire eater.
“No, we’ll give him a while.”
“Let’s please go into the shade,” Margot said. Her face was white and she looked ill.
They made their way to the car where it stood under a single, wide-spreading tree and all climbed in.
“Chances are he’s dead in there,” Wilson remarked. “After a little we’ll have a look.”
Macomber felt a wild unreasonable happiness that he had never known before.
“By God, that, was a chase,” he said. “I’ve never felt any such feeling. Wasn’t it marvellous, Margot?”
“I hated it.”
“Why?”
“I hated it,” she said bitterly. “I loathed it.”
“You know I don’t think I’d ever be afraid of anything again,” Macomber said to Wilson. “Something happened in me after we first saw the buff and started after him. Like a dam bursting. It was pure excitement.”
“Cleans out your liver,” said Wilson. “Damn funny things happen to people.”
Macomber’s face was shining. “You know something did happen to me,” he said. “I feel absolutely different.”
His wife said nothing and eyed him strangely. She was sitting far back in the seat and Macomber was sitting forward talking to Wilson who turned sideways talking over the back of the front seat.
“You know, I’d like to try another lion,” Macomber said. “I’m really not afraid of them now. After all, what can they do to you?”
“That’s it,” said Wilson. “Worst one can do is kill you. How does it go? Shakespeare. Damned good. See if I can remember. Oh, damned good. Used to quote it to myself at one time. Let’s see. ‘By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.’ Damned fine, eh?”
He was very embarrassed, having brought out this thing he had lived by, but he had seen men come of age before and it always moved him. It was not a matter of their twenty-first birthday.
It had taken a strange chance of hunting, a sudden precipitation into action without opportunity for worrying beforehand, to bring this about with Macomber, but regardless of how it had happened it had most certainly happened. Look at the beggar now, Wilson thought. It’s that some of them stay little boys so long, Wilson thought.
Sometimes all their lives. Their figures stay boyish when they’re fifty. The great American boy-men. Damned strange people. But he liked this Macomber now. Damned strange fellow. Probably meant the end of cuckoldry too. Well, that would be a damned good thing. Damned good thing. Beggar had probably been afraid all his life. Don’t know what started it. But over now. Hadn’t had time to be afraid with the buff. That and being angry too. Motor car too. Motor cars made it familiar. Be a damn fire eater now. He’d seen it in the war work the same way. More of a change than any loss of virginity. Fear gone like an operation. Something else grew in its place. Main thing a man had. Made him into a man. Women knew it too. No bloody fear.
From the far corner of the seat Margaret Macomber looked at the two of them. There was no change in Wilson. She saw Wilson as she had seen him the day before when she had first realized what his great talent was. But she saw the change in Francis Macomber now.
“Do you have that feeling of happiness about what’s going to
