06 African Adventure

by Willard Price

  Suddenly it wrenched its head about and sent the milk flying. Milk dripped from the little whiskers, but the jaws were still clamped shut.

  Hal laughed. ‘Funny thing, when three big men can’t make one small cat take its breakfast.’

  Zulu was nuzzling the ball of golden brown fur with her nose and whimpering softly.

  ‘What’s the matter, Zu?’ said Roger. ‘What are yon trying to say?’

  Hunt studied the dog. ‘I think I know,’ he said. He called Mali, the dog’s owner. ‘Mali, didn’t you say that Zu has just had pups?’

  ‘It is so, bwana.’

  ‘Then perhaps she’s still in milk. She seems to have adopted these little rascals. Perhaps she wants to feed them. Put the cub back into the cage. Roger, and let’s see what happens. Leave the door open.’

  Zu, with a little bark, followed the cub into the cage, put one and then the other into the basket, got in herself, and lay down.

  But nothing happened. The small animals turned away from the dog. One of them began to climb out of the basket.

  ‘They need a little coaching,’ Hunt said.’

  He went into the cage on his knees, took both cats by the nape of the neck, turned them about, and pressed their noses close to the food supply that was waiting for them. The cubs tried to wriggle out of his grip. When they found they could not, they relaxed. Their sense of smell gradually won them over to this unfamiliar foster-mother and they began to lick, then to suckle greedily.

  Hunt could now let go and crawl out of the cage, and the cubs’ breakfast continued with many little gurgling sounds of satisfaction. Roger was about to close the cage door, but his father said, ‘I don’t think you need to. Now that they know where they can find their dinner, they won’t run away.’

  When their meal was finished, the two cubs stretched themselves out contentedly and purred like organs. The dog began to lick their woolly hides.

  ‘Getting their morning bath,’ Roger said.

  ‘It looks like that,’ Hunt replied. ‘Actually what it does is to massage the muscles and aid digestion. Many animal mothers do it by instinct, without knowing why -dogs, leopards, lions, antelopes, and others.’

  Roger admired his two pets - he considered them his. Their fur was like dark gold. They didn’t look much like leopards. The circles and spots that mark the grown-up leopard were as yet only soft blurs - they would appear more plainly as the animals grew older. The whiskers, still short, would become long and bristly. The greenish-yellow eyes were fierce, but not so fierce as they would be. The teeth and jaws were already bigger than a grown man’s. But the way each little cat staggered around on awkward paws showed that it was still very much of a baby.

  ‘Can we keep them until they grow up?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No. They will have to go to a zoo where they can be cared for properly. Grown leopards don’t make good pets.’

  ‘Why not? These little fellows aren’t bad-tempered. They haven’t put their claws out once. And a leopard doesn’t grow very large - like a lion.’

  ‘But they don’t keep that sweet disposition when they get older,’ Hunt said. ‘No matter how kindly they are treated, they finally turn savage. A lion or an elephant can be your friend for life - but not a leopard. Something in their nature makes them suspect and hate everything else that moves. And the leopard is very strong. Zoologists say that it is the strongest animal for its size on earth. A leopard is a wonderful climber. It can run up a tree as fast as you can run on the level. When it kills an animal, it drags the body up a tree and puts it in the cleft of a high branch so that lions and hyenas can’t get at it. Many times game wardens have reported seeing a leopard shinny up a tree dragging a waterbuck or a zebra three times as heavy as itself. Sounds impossible, but they’ve proved it by shooting the leopard and weighing the carcasses. And a leopard is more bold than other animals. Ask the villagers. They are more afraid of the leopard than of anything else. A lion won’t come into a house, and an elephant can’t - but a leopard thinks nothing of creeping in through a door or window and seizing the first living thing it finds.’

  ‘Then why don’t the game scouts go out and kill all the leopards?’

  ‘A good question,’ his father agreed. ‘The answer is that in the scheme of nature the leopard has its place. For one thing, it keeps down the baboons. The leopard is very fond of baboon meat. If it weren’t for leopards, there would soon be such vast numbers of baboons that every farmer’s field would be stripped clean of every growing thing, and troops of baboons would become so bold that they would make raids upon village people and kill hundreds of them. That very thing has happened in parts of the country where there were no leopards.’

  Roger swatted a tsetse fly that had lit on his hand. He looked at his father with mischief in his eyes.

  ‘Well Dad, if everything is good for something, tell me what’s good about a tsetse?’

  Hunt grinned. ‘You think you’ve got me there, you young rascal. All right, I’ll tell you what’s good about a tsetse. First I’ll admit it’s the most dangerous fly in the world, because its bite can give you sleeping sickness. That can happen, but usually doesn’t - most tsetse bites are harmless. But the good thing about this bad fly is that without it you wouldn’t be looking now at thousands of wild animals. They just wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I remember once I was making a trip through the Tsavo game reserve with the warden and I swatted a tsetse. He said to me, ‘Don’t kill the tsetse. It’s our best friend. Without the tsetse we wouldn’t have any game park.’ I understood what he meant. The Africans raise millions of cattle and the cattle roam all over the land eating the grass right down to the roots, so that there is nothing left for the wild animals. But there is one place where the cattle can’t go. They can’t go into any area inhabited by tsetse flies, because the tsetse bite is deadly to cattle. So those parts of the country are left for the wild animals to enjoy.’

  ‘But don’t the flies kill the wild animals, too?’

  ‘No. The wild animals have been living with the tsetse for so many hundreds of years that they have become immune to tsetse bite - they are used to it, and it doesn’t hurt them. You notice this village has no cattle. That’s because this is a tsetse belt. Of course cattle are good to have, but it’s also good to have some places left where the most wonderful animals in all the world have a chance to exist.’

  Roger looked at the dead leopard which the men were beginning to skin. ‘Too bad we had to kill that one.’

  ‘Yes. But when they become man-eaters, we have to do something about it.’

  ‘Who gets that skin?’

  ‘The American Museum in New York has ordered one. If they don’t want it, some furrier will be glad to get it’

  ‘What’s it worth?”

  ‘About two hundred and thirty pounds.’

  ‘How many skins like that does it take to make a fur coat?’

  ‘About eight.’

  Roger whistled. ‘That makes a coat cost eighteen hundred pounds.’

  ‘More than that. The furrier wants to make a profit. He would sell a leopard-skin coat for two thousand five hundred pounds more or less, depending on the quality of the fur. This fur was out of fashion for a while but now it has come back strong. Probably because it’s hard to get Leopards are becoming scarce. Of course, nobody needs to pay that much to keep warm. A lady with less expensive tastes can buy an ocelot coat for thirteen hundred pounds, cheetah for one thousand pounds, jaguar for three hundred and fifty pounds. Leopard fur is the strongest and most durable.’

  Breakfast was ready now, and the hungry hunters fell to with a will. Zulu came out of the cage to get her share, Everyone was much too interested in bacon and eggs and hot biscuits and coffee to notice the cubs until Roger cried:

  ‘They’re out. They’re running away.’

  But the little leopards were not running away. Instead, they waddled in pursuit of their foster-mother. They rubbed again
st her legs and licked her fur. They sniffed at her dish of meat and turned away. This was not their idea of good food. They were friendly little beasts. One of them scrambled up into Roger’s lap and licked his face with a tongue that felt like coarse sandpaper. In no time at all it had rubbed off the skin and drawn blood.

  Ouch!’ cried Roger. ‘You’re just too good to me,’ and he pushed the woolly ball down into his lap.

  But the little bundle of energy showed surprising strength. He threw off Roger’s hand and leaped up on the camp table, one paw splashing into Hal’s fried eggs and the other into a cup of coffee.

  He was captured and placed on the ground, where he set to work licking off his wet paws.

  In the meantime, the other cub had disappeared.

  ‘It can’t be far away,’ Hunt said. ‘Look in the tents.’

  The men dived into the tents and searched in corners and under cots and even in the canvas bath-tubs, but found no cub. They came out and searched the grass and bushes around the camp, with no result.

  Then Roger happened to look up into the foliage of a tree that stood just inside the circle of tents. There was the cub, lying perfectly still on a low branch, watching with bright eyes as these silly humans ran here and there hunting for him. Now he really looked like a leopard rather than just a ball of woolly fur. His little claws gripped the branch. There was an almost savage blaze in his yellow-green eyes. He was ready to spring on anything passing below. This was something he had never been taught, but something that leopards had done for thousands of years, and the instinct was planted deep in his nerves and brain.

  Chapter 5

  The unlucky Colonel Bigg

  It was just Colonel Bigg’s bad luck that he should choose this moment to walk into camp. The leopard, perched high where he could get a good view, was the first to see him. The mischievous little beast crouched low, dug his claws into the branch and prepared to leap upon the newcomer.

  Colonel Bigg did not see the ball of fur on the branch. He saw only the tents and a fire and men. And he smelt bacon and eggs. And he was hungry.

  While he was still hidden by the bushes, he stopped to spruce himself up. He removed his hat, took a comb from his pocket, and combed his hair. He smoothed the kinks out of his hat, replaced it on his head, and tipped it at just the right angle. After all, he was a White Hunter, or pretended to be, and must look the part. He straightened his bush-jacket and brushed the dust from his safari shorts.

  He puffed out his chest like a pouter pigeon and tried to look important. That was not too easy, since he was not important. It so happened that Colonel Benjamin Bigg, White Hunter, was not a colonel and not a White Hunter.

  He had owned a farm in Northern Rhodesia, but he was not a good farmer. He had gone bankrupt and lost his farm. While he was wondering what to do next, a man suggested, ‘Why don’t you become a White Hunter?’

  It was an exciting idea. He, a White Hunter!

  When a wealthy American, or German, or anybody, wants to go hunting big game in Africa, he hires a White Hunter to go with him, a man who knows the country, knows where to find the animals, and knows how to shoot.

  When out on safari (a hunting trip) it is the White Hunter who bosses the expedition, sees that the camp is supplied with food, tracks the elephant or buffalo or lion, and tells the sportsman when to fire. If the sportsman only wounds the beast and it charges him, it is the White Hunter who must save his client’s life by bringing down the enraged beast with a bullet in the heart or brain. When the sportsman poses for his picture with rifle in hand and one foot on the dead beast, the White Hunter has the right to pose beside him.

  It’s a proud life, a wonderful life. Who wouldn’t want to be a White Hunter?

  ‘But it’s not for me,’ Bigg said. ‘I don’t know a thing about hunting.’

  ‘Now don’t tell me that,’ said his friend. ‘Haven’t you ever shot anything?’

  ‘Only a jack-rabbit. And it got away.’

  ‘No matter. You don’t need to be able to shoot. Your client will do the shooting.’

  ‘Suppose he misses?’

  Tell your gun-bearers beforehand to be ready to shoot. Then if your sportsman misses, you and your gun-bearers blaze away all at the same time. One of them is bound to hit home, and who’s going to say it wasn’t you?’

  ‘But I wouldn’t know where to take anybody to find game.’

  ‘What of it? Your Africans will know. Leave it to them. Let them do the work and you take the credit’

  It sounded good. Bigg smiled. ‘How do I get started in this racket?’

  ‘Put an advertisement in one of the sport magazines. You know - ‘Professional hunter, long experience, expert shot, results guaranteed’ - then give your name and address. Oh, there’s one more thing. You ought to have a handle to your name.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Captain or major or something. Makes it easier to sell yourself. Gives you class.’

  Benny Bigg thought it over. If captain would be good and major better, then colonel would be still better. So he became Colonel Benjamin Bigg, White Hunter.

  His advertisement in Outdoor Life brought a radiogram from a wealthy New Yorker: ‘State price for thirty-day safari.’ He must have been wealthy, since he did not back down when Bigg replied with a quotation of seven thousand dollars for his expert services for one month.

  Bigg’s offer was accepted. Bigg instructed his client to meet him in Nairobi, where most safaris are outfitted,

  The client, Hiram Bullwinkle, together with his wife, arrived at the time set. In the lounge of the Norfolk Hotel they met the famous hunter to whose skill and daring they were going to trust their lives for the coming month.

  Colonel Bigg played his part to the limit. He casually referred to his exploits during the war (he didn’t say which war) and tossed off the names of some of his former clients, such as the Archduke of Austria and the King of Norway. Mrs Bullwinkle was entranced with this romantic hero of war and wilderness. Mr Bullwinkle was impressed, but a little uneasy. Somehow this professional hunter seemed a little too good.

  Bigg went to an outfitting firm which did the things he didn’t know how to do for himself. They got for him the necessary game licences, experienced African gun-bearers and trackers, food supplies for thirty days, tents, cots, and folding bath-tubs, jeeps and Land-Rover.

  So the safari took off, the clients guided by the ‘colonel’, the ‘colonel’ guided by his Africans.

  For the first week everything went fairly well. Mr Bull winkle bagged an elephant. His own bullet merely wounded the beast, but the gallant White Hunter and three black gun-bearers all fired at once and the elephant dropped dead.

  It was odd that a monkey in a tree fell dead at the same moment. Colonel Bigg explained that one of his gun-bearers was not a very good shot. But Mr Bullwinkle remembered that the White Hunter’s gun had most curiously wobbled about and at the moment of firing seemed to be pointed rather above the elephant’s back and directly towards that monkey.

  A waterbuck, a wildebeest, and a zebra were added to the bag, but each time there seemed some doubt about the White Hunter’s part in the act. Mr Bullwinkle, who had some knowledge of men, began to suspect that his White Hunter was a fraud.

  Then came the day of the lion. Mrs Bullwinkle ventured a hundred feet from camp to get a shot at a Tommy gazelle. She carried a .275 Rigby, which was just right for a gazelle but not for big game. She was not afraid, for her White Hunter was beside her and he carried a -470 Nitro Express, which was tough enough to tackle anything alive.

  What should pop out of the elephant grass but a huge male lion! He gazed for a moment at the two advancing hunters; then, since he was not looking for trouble, he turned to go. Mrs Bullwinkle knew her gun was not built to shoot lion.

  ‘Get him!’ she whispered. Colonel Bigg glanced around. His gun-bearers were not close enough to help him this time. Anyhow, there was nothing to fear. The lion must be a coward. He was running away. What
a feather it would be in the colonel’s cap if he could bag this lion! Bigg raised his heavy gun and fired.

  What happened then scared him out of his wits. The lion, wounded just enough to become angry, wheeled about with a savage growl and came straight for his tormentor.

  Colonel Bigg dropped his gun and ran for his life. Mrs Bullwinkle stood her ground and fired. With a final leap the big cat was upon her, teeth and claws tearing into her flesh. She heard another explosion, then knew nothing more.

  She woke to find herself on her cot in the tent. The senior gun-bearer had just finished treating and bandaging her wounds.

  ‘What happened?’ she said.

  ‘This man got in a shot just in time,’ said her husband. ‘The lion is dead.’

  ‘Where is Colonel Bigg?’

  ‘Gone. I sent him packing. I told him if I ever see him again I’ll kill him/

  ‘But we can’t get back to Nairobi without him.’

  ‘Nonsense. Our Africans will get us back. They’ve been the brains of this trip all along. Do you realize you’d be dead now if it hadn’t been for this gun-bearer? Bigg ran like a scared rabbit and left you to the lion. White Hunter indeed! He’s a fake and we’re lucky to be rid of him.’

  So Colonel Bigg wandered for three days and nights before the smell of eggs and bacon led him to the Hunt camp.

  He did not arrive unobserved. Roger saw him stop to comb his hair, set his hat at a rakish angle, and take on the air of a big White Hunter. Roger also saw the crouching cat on the branch. And the stranger saw Roger.

  ‘My boy,’ he called. ‘I want to see your master.’

  Roger didn’t like to be called ‘my boy’ and he didn’t care for that word ‘master’. With mischief brewing in that innocent-looking head of his, he came forward and stopped just short of the half-hidden leopard. To reach him the stranger would have to pass under the branch.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Roger said politely. ‘What name shall I give my - master?’