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  “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 happen?” Macomber asked, still exploring his new wealth.

  “You’re not supposed to mention it,” Wilson said, looking in the other’s face. “Much more fashionable to say you’re scared. Mind you, you’ll be scared too, plenty of times.”

  “But you have a feeling of happiness about action to come?”

  “Yes,” said Wilson. “There’s that. Doesn’t do to talk too much about all this. Talk the whole thing away. No pleasure in anything if you mouth it up too much.”

  “You’re both talking rot,” said Margot. “Just because you’ve chased some helpless animals in a motor car you talk like heroes.”

  “Sorry,” said Wilson. “I have been gassing too much.” She’s worried about it already, he thought.

  “If you don’t know what we’re talking about why not keep out of it?” Macomber asked his wife.

  “You’ve gotten awfully brave, awfully suddenly,” his wife said contemptuously, but her contempt was not secure. She was very afraid of something.

  Macomber laughed, a very natural hearty laugh. “You know I have,” he said. “I really have.”

  “Isn’t it sort of late?” Margot said bitterly. Because she had done the best she could for many years back and the way they were together now was no one person’s fault.

  “Not for me,” said Macomber.

  Margot said nothing but sat back in the corner of the seat.

  “Do you think we’ve given him time enough?” Macomber asked Wilson cheerfully.

  “We might have a look,” Wilson said. “Have you any solids left?”

  “The gun-bearer has some.”

  Wilson called in Swahili and the older gun-bearer, who was skinning out one of the heads, straightened up, pulled a box of solids out of his pocket and brought them over to Macomber, who filled his magazine and put the remaining shells in his pocket.

  “You might as well shoot the Springfield,” Wilson said. “You’re used to it. We’ll leave the Mannlicher in the car with the Memsahib. Your gun-bearer can carry your heavy gun. I’ve this damned cannon. Now let me tell you about them.” He had saved this until the last because he did not want to worry Macomber. “When a buff comes he comes with his head high and thrust straight out. The boss of the horns covers any sort of a brain shot. The only shot is straight into the nose. The only other shot is into his chest or, if you’re to one side, into the neck or the shoulders. After they’ve been hit once they take a hell of a lot of killing. Don’t try anything fancy. Take the easiest shot there is. They’ve finished skinning out that head now. Should we get started?”

  He called to the gun-bearers, who came up wiping their hands, and the older one got into the back.

  “I’ll only take Kongoni,” Wilson said. “The other can watch to keep the birds away.”

  As the car moved slowly across the open space toward the island of brushy trees that ran in a tongue of foliage along a dry water course that cut the open swale, Macomber felt his heart pounding and his mouth was dry again, but it was excitement, not fear.

  “Here’s where he went in,” Wilson said. Then to the gun-bearer in Swahili, “Take the blood spoor.”

  The car was parallel to the patch of bush. Macomber, Wilson and the gun-bearer got down. Macomber, looking back, saw his wife, with the rifle by her side, looking at him. He waved to her and she did not wave back.

  The brush was very thick ahead and the ground was dry. The middle-aged gun-bearer was sweating heavily and Wilson had his hat down over his eyes and his red neck showed just ahead of Macomber. Suddenly the gun-bearer said something in Swahili to Wilson and ran forward.

  “He’s dead in there,” Wilson said. “Good work,” and he turned to grip Macomber’s hand and as they shook hands, grinning at each other, the gun-bearer shouted wildly and they saw him coming out of the bush sideways, fast as a crab, and the bull coming, nose out, mouth tight closed, blood dripping, massive head straight out, coming in a charge, his little pig eyes bloodshot as he looked at them. Wilson, who was ahead was kneeling shooting, and Macomber, as he fired, unhearing his shot in the roaring of Wilson’s gun, saw fragments like slate burst from the huge boss of the horns, and the head jerked, he shot again at the wide nostrils and saw the horns jolt again and fragments fly, and he did not see Wilson now and, aiming carefully, shot again with the buffalo’s huge bulk almost on him and his rifle almost level with the on-coming head, nose out, and he could see the little wicked eyes and the head started to lower and he felt a sudden white-hot, blinding flas
h explode inside his head and that was all he ever felt.

  Wilson had ducked to one side to get in a shoulder shot. Macomber had stood solid and shot for the nose, shooting a touch high each time and hitting the heavy horns, splintering and chipping them like hitting a slate roof, and Mrs. Macomber, in the car, had shot at the buffalo with the 6.5 Mannlicher as it seemed about to gore Macomber and had hit her husband about two inches up and a little to one side of the base of his skull.

  Francis Macomber lay now, face down, not two yards from where the buffalo lay on his side and his wife knelt over him with Wilson beside her.

  “I wouldn’t turn him over,” Wilson said.

  The woman was crying hysterically.

  “I’d get back in the car,” Wilson said. “Where’s the rifle?”

  She shook her head, her face contorted. The gun-bearer picked up the rifle.

  “Leave it as it is,” said Wilson. Then, “Go get Abdulla so that he may witness the manner of the accident.”

  He knelt down, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and spread it over Francis Macomber’s crew-cropped head where it lay. The blood sank into the dry, loose earth.

  Wilson stood up and saw the buffalo on his side, his legs out, his thinly-haired belly crawling with ticks. “Hell of a good bull,” his brain registered automatically. “A good fifty inches, or better. Better.” He called to the driver and told him to spread a blanket over the body and stay by it. Then he walked over to the motor car where the woman sat crying in the corner.

  “That was a pretty thing to do,” he said in a toneless voice. “He would have left you too.”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “Of course it’s an accident,” he said. “I know that.”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There will be a certain amount of unpleasantness but I will have some photographs taken that will be very useful at the inquest. There’s the testimony of the gun-bearers and the driver too. You’re perfectly all right.”

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “There’s a hell of a lot to be done,” he said. “And I’ll have to send a truck off to the lake to wireless for a plane to take the three of us into Nairobi. Why didn’t you poison him? That’s what they do in England.”

  “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it,” the woman cried.

  Wilson looked at her with his flat blue eyes.

  “I’m through now,” he said. “I was a little angry. I’d begun to like your husband.”

  “Oh, please stop it,” she said. “Please, please stop it.”

  “That’s better,” Wilson said. “Please is much better. Now I’ll stop.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ernest Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois, in 1899, and began his writing career with The Kansas City Star in 1917. During the First World War he volunteered as an ambulance driver on the Italian front but was invalided home, having been seriously wounded while serving with the Red Cross. In 1921 Hemingway settled in Paris, where he became part of the expatriate circle of Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, and Ford Madox Ford. His first book, Three Stories and Ten Poems, was published in Paris in 1923 and was followed by the short story collection In Our Time, which marked his American debut in 1925. With the appearance of The Sun Also Rises in 1926, Hemingway became not only the voice of the “lost generation” but the preeminent writer of his time. This was followed by Men Without Women in 1927, when Hemingway returned to the United States, and his novel of the Italian front, A Farewell to Arms (1929). In the 1930s, Hemingway settled in Key West, and later in Cuba, but he traveled widely—to Spain, Italy, and Africa—and wrote about his experiences in Death in the Afternoon (1932), his classic treatise on bullfighting, and Green Hills of Africa (1935), an account of big-game hunting in Africa. Later he reported on the Spanish Civil War, which became the background for his brilliant war novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), hunted U-boats in the Caribbean, and covered the European front during the Second World War. Hemingway’s most popular work, The Old Man and the Sea (1952), was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1953, and in 1954 Hemingway won the Nobel Prize in Literature “for his powerful, style-forming mastery of the art of narration.” One of the most important influences on the development of the short story and novel in American fiction, Hemingway has seized the imagination of the American public like no other twentieth-century author. He died in Ketchum, Idaho, in 1961. His other works include The Torrents of Spring (1926), Winner Take Nothing (1933), To Have and Have Not (1937), The Fifth Column and the First Forty-nine Stories (1938), Across the River and Into the Trees (1950), and posthumously, A Moveable Feast (1964), Islands in the Stream (1970), The Dangerous Summer (1985), and The Garden of Eden (1986).

  SCRIBNER

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “In Another Country” and “The Killers”

  copyright 1927 by Charles Scribner’s Sons

  Copyright renewed © 1955 by Ernest Hemingway

  “Fifty Grand” copyright 1927 by Ernest Hemingway

  Copyright renewed © 1955 by Ernest Hemingway

  “The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio”; “Fathers and Sons”;

  “A Way You’ll Never Be” copyright 1933 by Charles Scribner’s Sons

  Copyright renewed © 1961 by Mary Hemingway

  “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” and “A Day’s Wait”

  copyright 1933 by Ernest Hemingway

  Copyright renewed © 1961 by Mary Hemingway

  “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” and “The Snows of

  Kilimanjaro” copyright 1936 by Ernest Hemingway

  Copyright renewed © 1964 by Mary Hemingway

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Jossey-Bass, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

  Designed by Brooke Zimmer

  First Scribner ebook edition 2002

  All inquiries about print and electronic permissions (use of excerpts) for books and other works by Ernest Hemingway can be sent by email to:

  [email protected], or by regular mail to Simon & Schuster, Inc., Permissions Dept., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020, or by fax to (212) 698-7284.

  Visit www.simonsays.com/hemingway for additional information about Ernest Hemingway.

  ISBN 0-7432-3732-3

  “The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio” was first published as

  “Give Us a Prescription, Doctor.”

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Contents

  The Snows of Kilimanjaro

  A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

  A Day's Wait

  The Gamber, the Nun, and the Radio

  Fathers and Sons

  In Another Country

  The Killers

  A Way You'll Never Be

  Fifty Grand

  The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Contents

  About the Author

  First Scribner ebook edition 2002

  All inquiries about print and electronic permissions (use of excerpts) for books and other works by Ernest Hemingway can be sent by email to:

  [email protected], or by regular mail to Simon & Schuster, Inc., Permissions Dept., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020, or by fax to (212) 698-7284.

  Visit www.simonsays.com/hemingway for additional information about Ernest Hemingway.

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