The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories Page 17

  “I just went out to get a breath of air.”

  “You did, like hell.”

  “What do you want me to say, darling?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Out to get a breath of air.”

  “That’s a new name for it. You are a bitch.”

  “Well, you’re a coward.”

  “All right,” he said. “What of it?”

  “Nothing as far as I’m concerned. But please let’s not talk, darling, because I’m very sleepy.”

  “You think that I’ll take anything.”

  “I know you will, sweet.”

  “Well, I won’t.”

  “Please, darling, let’s not talk. I’m so very sleepy.”

  “There wasn’t going to be any of that. You promised there wouldn’t be.”

  “Well, there is now,” she said sweetly.

  “You said if we made this trip that there would be none of that. You promised.”

  “Yes, darling. That’s the way I meant it to be. But the trip was spoiled yesterday. We don’t have to talk about it, do we?”

  “You don’t wait long when you have an advantage, do you?”

  “Please let’s not talk. I’m so sleepy, darling.”

  “I’m going to talk.”

  “Don’t mind me then, because I’m going to sleep.” And she did.

  At breakfast they were all three at the table before daylight and Francis Macomber found that, of all the many men that he had hated, he hated Robert Wilson the most.

  “Sleep well?” Wilson asked in his throaty voice, filling a pipe.

  “Did you?”

  “Topping,” the white hunter told him.

  You bastard, thought Macomber, you insolent bastard.

  So she woke him when she came in, Wilson thought, looking at them both with his flat, cold eyes. Well, why doesn’t he keep his wife where she belongs? What does he think I am, a bloody plaster saint? Let him keep her where she belongs. It’s his own fault.

  “Do you think we’ll find buffalo?” Margot asked, pushing away a dish of apricots.

  “Chance of it,” Wilson said and smiled at her. “Why don’t you stay in camp?”

  “Not for anything,” she told him.

  “Why not order her to stay in camp?” Wilson said to Macomber.

  “You order her,” said Macomber coldly.

  “Let’s not have any ordering, nor,” turning to Macomber, “any silliness, Francis,” Margot said quite pleasantly.

  “Are you ready to start?” Macomber asked.

  “Any time,” Wilson told him. “Do you want the Memsahib to go?”

  “Does it make any difference whether I do or not?”

  The hell with it, thought Robert Wilson. The utter complete hell with it. So this is what it’s going to be like. Well, this is what it’s going to be like, then.

  “Makes no difference,” he said. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like to stay in camp with her yourself and let me go out and hunt the buffalo?” Macomber asked.

  “Can’t do that,” said Wilson. “Wouldn’t talk rot if I were you.”

  “I’m not talking rot. I’m disgusted.”

  “Bad word, disgusted.”

  “Francis, will you please try to speak sensibly!” his wife said.

  “I speak too damned sensibly,” Macomber said. “Did you ever eat such filthy food?”

  “Something wrong with the food?” asked Wilson quietly.

  “No more than with everything else.”

  “I’d pull yourself together, laddybuck,” Wilson said very quietly. “There’s a boy waits at table that understands a little English.”

  “The hell with him.”

  Wilson stood up and puffing on his pipe strolled away, speaking a few words in Swahili to one of the gun-bearers who was standing waiting for him. Macomber and his wife sat on at the table. He was staring at his coffee cup.

  “If you make a scene I’ll leave you, darling,” Margot said quietly.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “You can try it and see.”

  “You won’t leave me.”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t leave you and you’ll behave yourself.”

  “Behave myself? That’s a way to talk. Behave myself.”

  “Yes. Behave yourself.”

  “Why don’t you try behaving?”

  “I’ve tried it so long. So very long.”

  “I hate that red-faced swine,” Macomber said. “I loathe the sight of him.”

  “He’s really very nice.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Macomber almost shouted. Just then the car came up and stopped in front of the dining tent and the driver and the two gun-bearers got out. Wilson walked over and looked at the husband and wife sitting there at the table.

  “Going shooting?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Macomber, standing up. “Yes.”

  “Better bring a woolly. It will be cool in the car,” Wilson said.

  “I’ll get my leather jacket,” Margot said.

  “The boy has it,” Wilson told her. He climbed into the front with the driver and Francis Macomber and his wife sat, not speaking, in the back seat.

  Hope the silly beggar doesn’t take a notion to blow the back of my head off, Wilson thought to himself. Women are a nuisance on safari.

  The car was grinding down to cross the river at a pebbly ford in the gray daylight and then climbed, angling up the steep bank, where Wilson had ordered a way shovelled out the day before so they could reach the parklike wooded rolling country on the far side.

  It was a good morning, Wilson thought. There was a heavy dew and as the wheels went through the grass and low bushes he could smell the odor of the crushed fronds. It was an odor like verbena and he liked this early morning smell of the dew, the crushed bracken and the look of the tree trunks showing black through the early morning mist, as the car made its way through the untracked, parklike country. He had put the two in the back seat out of his mind now and was thinking about buffalo. The buffalo that he was after stayed in the daytime in a thick swamp where it was impossible to get a shot, but in the night they fed out into an open stretch of country and if he could come between them and their swamp with the car, Macomber would have a good chance at them in the open. He did not want to hunt buff with Macomber in thick cover. He did not want to hunt buff or anything else with Macomber at all, but he was a professional hunter and he had hunted with some rare ones in his time. If they got buff today there would only be rhino to come and the poor man would have gone through his dangerous game and things might pick up. He’d have nothing more to do with the woman and Macomber would get over that too. He must have gone through plenty of that before by the look of things. Poor beggar. He must have a way of getting over it. Well, it was the poor sod’s own bloody fault.

  He, Robert Wilson, carried a double size cot on safari to accommodate any windfalls he might receive. He had hunted for a certain clientele, the international, fast, sporting set, where the women did not feel they were getting their money’s worth unless they had shared that cot with the white hunter. He despised them when he was away from them although he liked some of them well enough at the time, but he made his living by them; and their standards were his standards as long as they were hiring him.

  They were his standards in all except the shooting. He had his own standards about the killing and they could live up to them or get some one else to hunt them. He knew, too, that they all respected him for this. This Macomber was an odd one though. Damned if he wasn’t. Now the wife. Well, the wife. Yes, the wife. Hm, the wife. Well he’d dropped all that. He looked around at them. Macomber sat grim and furious. Margot smiled at him. She looked younger today, more innocent and fresher and not so professionally beautiful. What’s in her heart God knows, Wilson thought. She hadn’t talked much last night. At that it was a pleasure to see her.

  The motor car climbed up a slight rise and went on through the trees and then out into a grassy prairie-lik
e opening and kept in the shelter of the trees along the edge, the driver going slowly and Wilson looking carefully out across the prairie and all along its far side. He stopped the car and studied the opening with his field glasses. Then he motioned to the driver to go on and the car moved slowly along, the driver avoiding wart-hog holes and driving around the mud castles ants had built. Then, looking across the opening, Wilson suddenly turned and said,

  “By God, there they are!”

  And looking where he pointed, while the car jumped forward and Wilson spoke in rapid Swahili to the driver, Macomber saw three huge, black animals looking almost cylindrical in their long heaviness, like big black tank cars, moving at a gallop across the far edge of the open prairie. They moved at a stiff-necked, stiff bodied gallop and he could see the upswept wide black horns on their heads as they galloped heads out; the heads not moving.

  “They’re three old bulls,” Wilson said. “We’ll cut them off before they get to the swamp.”

  The car was going a wild forty-five miles an hour across the open and as Macomber watched, the buffalo got bigger and bigger until he could see the gray, hairless, scabby look of one huge bull and how his neck was a part of his shoulders and the shiny black of his horns as he galloped a little behind the others that were strung out in that steady plunging gait; and then, the car swaying as though it had just jumped a road, they drew up close and he could see the plunging hugeness of the bull, and the dust in his sparsely haired hide, the wide boss of horn and his outstretched, wide-nostrilled muzzle, and he was raising his rifle when Wilson shouted, “Not from the car, you fool!” and he had no fear, only hatred of Wilson, while the brakes clamped on and the car skidded, plowing sideways to an almost stop and Wilson was out on one side and he on the other, stumbling as his feet hit the still speeding-by of the earth, and then he was shooting at the bull as he moved away, hearing the bullets whunk into him, emptying his rifle at him as he moved steadily away, finally remembering to get his shots forward into the shoulder, and as he fumbled to re-load, he saw the bull was down. Down on his knees, his big head tossing, and seeing the other two still galloping he shot at the leader and hit him. He shot again and missed and he heard the carawonging roar as Wilson shot and saw the leading bull slide forward onto his nose.

  “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, full 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 close 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.”