by Desmond Cory
“They’ll be up after that calf at sundown,” said Schneider.
“They’ve smelt the blood already. I think I’ll be there, too.”
“I’ll come too,” said Raikes, “if there’s a chance of buffalo. I haven’t seen any since we left Kenya.”
“There’ll be buffalo there tonight, sure enough.” Schneider raised one booted foot to the guard-rail and regarded Johnny quizzically. “What about you, Fedora? Feel like taking a gun tonight?”
Johnny’s eyes remained focused contemplatively on the sprawl of crocodiles. “I don’t know,” he said. “I doubt if I’ll be shooting straight yet; not for some time to come.”
“Well, you get that way after fever,” said Schneider; but his voice held a hint of amusement. “All the same, you seemed ready enough to take a risk last night.”
“Panthers are one thing. Buffalo another.”
“And men are another thing again.”
Johnny went back to his chair, still without looking at Schneider. He smoothed the shorts against his thighs, plumped out by the pressure of the seat; then let his hands rest motionless on his knees. “Demetrius?” he said.
There was an answering shout from the wheel. “Yes, I’m here.”
“We go after buffalo tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” Demetrius seemed to be greatly cheered by the news. “I think we will kill tonight, sir.”
“I think so too,” said Johnny.
5
BUFFALO-HUNTING is in many ways a game for the connoisseur. It has not the glamour of going after lion; the big cats inevitably stand in a class of their own; but it is equally exacting and very nearly as dangerous. For the buffalo is a wary animal, and not easy to stalk; and even when one is in a position to hit him, he is very hard to kill. And when a buffalo bull is hit and not killed, he becomes a very nasty proposition indeed.
For a wounded bull is almost the only animal that will deliberately hunt his hunters. A blooded lion goes to the bush, and will only come out in his last defiant charge when his enemies approach. But a blooded buffalo lollops away with his heart welling with venom and courage; he performs a dextrous little circle, takes up his stance in a convenient thicket and watches his pursuers with a red and jaundiced eye; then, as they go past him with eyes bent down to the blood spoor, he comes out at them like a thunderbolt. If he has picked his spot carefully, he will only have twenty or thirty yards to cover; and an enraged bull can cover twenty or thirty yards in an alarmingly short space of time. Moreover, a buffalo does not charge blindly, like an ordinary bull; he watches his target all the way and nothing can stop him reaching it but death. Travelling at thirty miles an hour, he can turn almost in his own length and pursue any other target in the immediate vicinity.
A Spanish fighting bull uses his horns almost as a boxer uses his fists, flicking to left and right at fantastic speed. But a buffalo is not inclined to be finicky; he hits you full tilt with a dislocatory force, and you die of a broken neck some ten yards distant from the point of contact. For these and other reasons, buffalo-hunting is not a sport to be undertaken lightly; except in certain regions of Africa where one is permitted to chase the cows in motor-cars and shoot from the open roof. Even then it is usually advisable not to hit a bull by mistake.
Johnny, didn’t have a motor-car, and certainly didn’t admire the method. He had no objection, however, to returning to the salt-lick by canoe; this being obviously less exhausting than slashing a way through the jungle. Shortly after six o’clock, therefore, he and Raikes and Schneider were being paddled downstream by Demetrius, Snort, and two of the indefatigable Masai. The crocodiles were still there; more of them than before, in fact; and they were given an extremely wide berth.
Part of Johnny’s mind was already keyed up in anticipation of the hunt, but another part moved independently in a fog of vague abstraction. He was considering the implications of his brief interchange with Raikes that afternoon, wondering exactly what had been hinted. He had badly wanted another word in private with the doctor, to clear up the problem; but Schneider had been in a hurry to return to the watering-place before the sun went down, so that Johnny and Raikes had not been alone for an instant. Well, there was no great hurry. Later that night, perhaps …
They landed some fifty yards below that spot where they had seen the slaughtered calf. One of the Masai remained with the canoe; the other accompanied the hunters as Raikes’ loader. The Masai, as a tribe, have some experience of white men’s ways and of white men’s weapons, and are safe enough as gun-boys; Demetrius carried Johnny’s Rigby as usual, and Snort Schneider’s Mannlicher. The three whites walked in front, moving as silently as possible through the waving fronds of eight-foot grass; the ground underfoot was slightly sticky, slippery in places. The even drone of mosquitoes sounded from all around; sometimes they rose in great clouds, heading out towards the river, and then it was necessary to brush them away as they drifted blindly into eyes and mouth and hair.
The hunters emerged from the grass thicket some little way down wind of an obvious buffalo track; since they were after meat and not after sport, they decided to wait there. Schneider was not of the opinion they would have to wait very long; and, only ten minutes later, Demetrius put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder.
Schneider saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked round; Johnny nodded. All six men crouched down in the screen of the elephant-grass, tense and listening.
Buffalo went by farther to the north; they heard the swishing of the grass and the unmistakable squelching of heavy splay-hoofed feet. Then there was a short silence. A waterbuck coughed a very long way away, and then there was the sound of buffalo again, coming now from all around them. The noises passed, as the others had done; and still there was nothing to be seen in front of them but ankle-deep grass and rutted mud and, fifty yards away, the crunching jungle. The shadows of the spiky grass-leaves around them waved long and black on the ground; it was fast approaching sunset.
Schneider moved until his mouth was three inches from Johnny’s left ear; he whispered, “Looks as if they’re not using this track any more.”
Johnny’s mouth shaped the word, “Wait.”
But Schneider had already heard the same sound; he was staring forwards again, his whole powers of concentration riveted on a single patch of shade. As he watched it, it moved perceptibly; the sinking sun played momentarily on chestnut-coloured hide before the shadow of a bush dismissed it. The grasses swayed; there was subdued snuffle; the buffalo emerged into full view, nose to the ground, swinging sedately towards the river. Schneider’s hand reached out behind him, and Snort placed the Mannlicher accurately into his grasp.
The buffalo was a cow, and not a large one; but it was definitely better than nothing. She was already suspicious; as Schneider flicked at the leaf of the rifle sights, she stopped dead and sniffed the air hesitantly. Then she moved forwards again, more slowly than before; still dissatisfied.
It was Schneider’s shot; that had been previously decided. The range was a little under a hundred yards, and would get no shorter; not a difficult shot, though the weaving pattern of sunlight and shadow was distracting. Schneider waited, the barrel of the rifle resting against his knee; estimated, lifted and fired. The bullet clapped beautifully; they all heard it. The cow did not even jerk at the impact; her forelegs buckled as she walked, her neck sagged and she rolled unwieldily to the earth. A nervous chatter of monkeys burst from the nearby jungle; a parakeet screamed hysterically. Schneider rose to his feet, handing the rifle back to Snort in the same movement.
“Oh, very nice shot,” said Raikes enthusiastically. “Head, wasn’t it?”
Schneider nodded.
“Very nice. Still you might have given us two a chance.”
“Let’s go and take a look at her,” said Johnny.
The three whites lit ceremonial cigarettes; then turned and broke cover together, walking together in a straggly line towards the prostrate cow. The bull watched them from the
coarse grass thicket just beyond her. The loose skin of his back rippled, shaking off the flies; once, he pawed the soft earth with his right fore hoof; otherwise, no part of him moved but his vicious little eyes. He was going to let the hunters get a little nearer yet. Then he was going to settle the tall, lean one in the olive-green bush shirt; the youngest one, who walked in advance of the others.
He pawed at the swampy earth again, silently.
Inevitably, it was Demetrius who realised that something was wrong. His steps grew gradually slower; he looked thoughtfully at Johnny’s back, five paces ahead of him, at the other two white men, then cautiously all around him; and he trotted forward to Johnny’s shoulder. “O, sir,” he said plaintively.
Johnny stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“There is something about the—”
Demetrius had no time for further explanations, for at that moment the bull came out like a rocket. Johnny gave it one horrified glance and “Gun,” he said, unnecessarily. Demetrius had whacked the Rigby into his hands before the word was out. Johnny threw back his right leg, and risked a fancy shot with the stock of the rifle dug firmly against his hip; the oncoming bull lowered his head in that same split second, and the softnosed bullet splintered the base of its horns. Somebody else, Schneider probably, tried a snapshot, but the bullet went nowhere; the bull came right on at the speed of a railway train, and to Johnny’s eyes it seemed about as big.
He slammed back the bolt, sank to his knees and shouldered the rifle with the same movement. His brain, working at lightning speed but fortunately coolly, told him that he had time for one more shot only, and that therefore that shot had better be a good one. So Johnny held his fire for the longest two seconds in his experience, wondering furiously as he waited why no one else was shooting. He shot with the bull not more than twenty feet away, saw a crimson star burst beneath its determined blood-rimmed eyes; and he threw himself wildly sideways as the bull’s neck crumpled. The huge corpse somersaulted incredibly over his outstretched leg, thirty-five stone of whirling beef and bone and muscle, skidded away with its legs splayed outwards and finally came to a stop. It kicked once with its rear legs, but it was dead already. Johnny drew a deep breath.
He pushed himself up from the ground, and reached for his rifle; he was vaguely conscious that something was missing. And he realised at once what it was; Demetrius’ little exhalation of delight and satisfaction that had always instantly succeeded a successful shot. He looked back in some perplexity.
Then he walked over to join the silent little group that was watching incredulously the spreadeagled body of Raikes.
The doctor lay on his back not twenty feet away. The bullet had entered just behind his ear; it was not easy to see just where it had emerged, but it had emerged all right, taking the greater part of the doctor’s forehead with it. Johnny was not a squeamish man, but after one long glance he deliberately looked away; and, as if moved by a common impulse, the five remaining men began to look at each other.
The silence suddenly snapped like a broken wire as Snort began to babble frantically in Agikuyu. The outburst immediately brought four pairs of accusing eyes upon him; this affected him visibly. He threw himself down upon the ground and began to beat it with his palms calling loudly upon his numerous ancestral gods.
“What did he say?” asked Johnny.
Demetrius shrugged. “He says it was not his fault, sir; that the doctor in his panic seized the wrong gun. It went off as it left his hand.”
“What did he say?” asked Schneider, who presumably had no French. Johnny rendered an exact translation.
“That’s true enough. That’s just about what happened. The doc grabbed the first gun he saw, the moment that buffalo broke; only Snort was nearer him than his own fellow.” Schneider’s face seemed pale under its tan. “He used a lighter gun than mine; I suppose the weight took him by surprise.”
“Damn that buffalo.”
Schneider inhaled deeply. “That’s about the nearest to heart failure I’ve ever been. When I saw what had happened and that dirty great bastard of a bull coming for us like smoke … Well, it’s a damned good job you nobbled him, Fedora. He’d have taken all three of us, and the natives for dessert.”
That was quite a speech for Schneider.
“Tell him to calm himself,” said Johnny to Demetrius, indicating the sobbing Snort. “It seems that no blame can rest with him. But many questions will be asked him later, and he must be fit to answer them.”
He stooped to pick up the Mannlicher, lying just clear of Raikes’ out-flung arm. It was certainly a heavy weapon. A nervous fumble, a finger brushing the trigger … Well, it was possible.
“Where’s Raikes’ own gun?”
“His boy’s still got it.” Schneider pointed. “He was too far away for me to grab hold of it; I couldn’t do anything but stand there and … and …” He beckoned to the Masai, who rolled his eyes upwards in horror. “Come here, young feller-me-lad. It’s all right; nobody’s going to eat you.”
Demetrius looked up and spoke briefly; whereupon the Masai advanced fearfully and handed Raikes’ rifle to Johnny. It was unquestionably a very much lighter weapon, a 318 Westley Richards; not a buffalo gun at all. The safety catch was applied. Johnny handed it back, and looked away towards the westering sun.
“We’d better get him back to camp,” he said. “It’s nearly sundown.”
Demetrius and the Masai carried the doctor between them back to the river; where Demetrius – who had taken the shoulders – had a short but necessary immersion. The blood snaked away down river in little whorls; the others clambered impatiently into the boat. “Let’s get a move on,” said Johnny, helping Demetrius over the stern, “before the crocs smell that little lot.”
Paddles splashed in the muddy water; the canoe surged away from the shore. Raikes lay full-length in the bows, like some pagan chieftain travelling to his death-rites. Schneider had placed a handkerchief over the face, a thoughtful but ineffectual act; the thin cotton fibres did little more than clot that terrible wound. He and Johnny sat moodily side by side.
“Lucky thing,” said Schneider, “there’s no question of this being anything but an accident.”
“Very lucky,” said Johnny.
“It means I can ask you a question that otherwise I might not have asked.”
Johnny moved his lower jaw from side to side; a meaningless motion. “What sort of a question?”
“You know when you and Raikes were talking this afternoon? When I was up at the bows with your boy here?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“I heard Raikes say something then. He pitched his voice rather high, and so I overheard him. He said something about your trying to threaten him.”
“He did? Oh yes, I remember. That was nothing. He misunderstood what I was trying to say.”
“I thought it would be something like that,” said Schneider. It was quite impossible to tell what he meant by this remark. “There seems to be a lot of misinterpretation these days,” he went on, in exactly the same tone of voice. “First Banfield gets misunderstood. And now you.”
“At least we get misunderstood by different people,” said Johnny softly.
Schneider swivelled his thoughtful grey-green eyes towards the man beside him and rubbed his fingers against the rough wood of the canoe. “I don’t think you’re likely to make any mistakes with Madrid,” he said; and Johnny wondered whether any other man of his acquaintance had ever possessed such a genius for ambiguity. He was, indeed, getting a little tired of this curious fencing that might not be fencing at all. “What do you mean?” he asked, cautiously raising the ante.
“I mean that I think you’re tough enough to scare her. I could be wrong. I don’t know the kid all that well.”
“She’s your sister, isn’t she?”
“Yes. But I’ve seen damned little of her these last ten years. Still – you’re stronger than her, and she knows it; that’s the point.”
&nbs
p; “I was a damned sight weaker than her, four or five days ago.”
Schneider shook his head. “If you weren’t a tough character, Fedora, you’d still be flat on your back. And a man’s as tough as the thing that drives him. You don’t let anything much get in your way; and women like that, for some reason. But men don’t, much; because it’s usually men that are in the way.” Schneider leaned forwards, and shadow instantly shrouded his face. “I’m telling you why you’d better watch out, Fedora.”
“For what?”
“For anything. Somebody else might start wondering if Raikes was in your way.”
“Somebody else? So you’re wondering that already?”
“I don’t say that.” Schneider’s fingers adjusted their grip on the stock of the Mannlicher. “I’m wondering how many men you have killed in your time.”
The five white men and the girl sat in a circle round the fire, staring into its glowing depths as though in an attempt to solve the secrets of the universe. The sixth white man lay alone in his tent, covered by a sheet. The camp was otherwise deserted; for the natives, under Demetrius and Snort, had paddled downstream en masse to strip the buffalo of meat before the cats arrived. The sun had set some time ago, and it still wanted some three hours to moonrise; beyond the circle of the leaping flames, all was pitch black.
Van Kuyp had obviously taken the matter of the accident seriously; his face seemed tight-drawn and worried beneath its aegis of beard. “There’ll be questions asked about this,” he said moodily, throwing a twig on the fire. “I guess we’re still on British territory nominally, huh. Or would it be French?”
“One or the other,” said Madrid.
“Well, there’ll be some kind of District Officer responsible for the area, surely? We ought to let him know what’s happened.”
“Why don’t you send him a telegram?” said Raven sourly.
“When we get back, I mean. You don’t reckon that boy of yours is likely to run away, do you, Schneider? – ’cause he’ll be needed for sure.”
