Green Hills of Africa

by Ernest Hemingway

and I had shot badly twice on the trip, at that grant and at a bustard once

  on the plain, still he beat me on all the tangible things we had to show.

  For a while we had joked about it and I knew everything would even up. But

  it didn't even up. Now, on this rhino hunt, I had taken the first crack at

  the country. We had sent him after meat while we had gone into a new

  country. We had not treated him badly, but we had not treated him too well,

  and still he had beaten me. Not only beaten, beaten was all right. He had

  made my rhino look so small that I could never keep him in the same small

  town where we lived. He had wiped him out. I had the shot I had made on him

  to remember and nothing could take that away except that it was so bloody

  marvellous I knew I would wonder, sooner or later, if it was not really a

  fluke in spite of my unholy self-confidence. Old Karl had put it on us all

  right with that rhino. He was in his tent now, writing a letter.

  Under the dining tent fly Pop and I talked over what we had better do.

  'He's got his rhino anyway,' Pop said. 'That saves us time. Now you

  can't stand on that one.'

  'No.'

  'But this country is washed out. Something wrong with it. Droopy claims

  to know a good country about three hours from here in the lorries and

  another hour or so on with the porters. We can head for there this afternoon

  with a light outfit, send the lorries back, and Karl and Dan can move on

  down to M'uto Umbu and he can get his oryx.'

  'Fine.'

  'He has a chance to get a leopard on that rhino carcass this evening,

  too, or in the morning. Dan said they heard one. We'll try to get a rhino

  out of this country of Droopy's and then you join up with them and go on for

  kudu. We want to leave plenty of time for them. '

  'Fine.'

  'Even if you don't get an oryx. You'll pick one up somewhere.'

  'Even if I don't get one at all, it's all right. We'll get one another

  time. I want a kudu, though. '

  'You'll get one. You're sure to.'

  'I'd rather get one, a good one, than all the rest. I don't give a damn

  about these rhino outside of the fun of hunting them. But I'd like to get

  one that wouldn't look silly beside that dream rhino of his.'

  'Absolutely.'

  So we told Karl and he said: 'Whatever you say. Sure. I hope you get

  one twice as big. ' He really meant it. He was feeling better now and so

  were we all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Droopy's country, when we reached it that evening, after a hot ride

  through red-soiled, bush-scrubby hills, looked awful. It was at the edge of

  a belt where all the trees had been girdled to kill the tsetse flies. And

  across from camp was a dusty, dirty native village. The soil was red and

  eroded and seemed to be blowing away, and camp was pitched in a high wind

  under the sketchy shade of some dead trees on a hillside overlooking a

  little stream and the mud village beyond. Before dark we followed Droopy and

  two local guides up past the village and in a long climb to the top of a

  rock-strewn ridge that overlooked a deep valley that was almost a canyon.

  Across on the other side, were broken valleys that sloped steeply down into

  the canyon. There were heavy growths of trees in the valleys and grassy

  slopes on the ridges between, and above there was the thick bamboo forest of

  the mountain. The canyon ran down to the Rift Valley, seeming to narrow at

  the far end where it cut through the wall of the rift. Beyond, above the

  grassy ridges and slopes, were heavily forested hills. It looked a hell of a

  country to hunt.

  'If you. see one across there you have to go straight down to the

  bottom of the canyon. Then up one of those timber patches and across those

  damned gullies. You can't keep him in sight and you'll kill yourself

  climbing. It's too steep. Those are the kind of innocent-looking gullies we

  got into that night coming home.'

  'It looks very bad,' Pop agreed.

  'I've hunted a country just like this for deer. The south slope of

  Timber Creek in Wyoming. The slopes are all too steep. It's hell. It's too

  broken. We'll take some punishment to-morrow.'

  P.O.M. said nothing. Pop had brought us here and Pop would bring us

  out. All she had to do was see her boots did not hurt her feet. They hurt

  just a little now, and that was her only worry.

  I went on to dilate on the difficulties the country showed and we went

  home to camp in the dark all very gloomy and full of prejudice against

  Droopy. The fire flamed brightly in the wind and we sat and watched the moon

  rise and listened to the hyenas. After we had a few drinks we did not feel

  so badly about the country.

  'Droopy swears it's good,' Pop said. 'This isn't where he wanted to go

  though, he says. It was another place farther on. But he swears this is

  good.'

  'I love Droopy,' P.O.M. said. 'I have perfect confidence in Droopy.'

  Droopy came up to the fire with two spear-carrying natives.

  'What does he hear?' I asked.

  There was some talk by the natives, then Pop said: 'One of these

  sportsmen claims he was chased by a huge rhino to-day. Of course nearly any

  rhino would look huge when he was chasing him.'

  'Ask him how long the horn was.'

  The native showed that the horn was as long as his arm. Droopy grinned.

  'Tell him to go,' said Pop.

  'Where did all this happen?'

  'Oh, over there somewhere,' Pop said. 'You know. Over there. Way over

  there. Where these things always happen.'

  'That's marvellous. Just where we want to go.'

  'The good aspect is that Droopy's not at all depressed,' Pop said. 'He

  seems very confident. After all, it's his show.'

  'Yes, but we have to do the climbing.'

  'Cheer him up, will you?' Pop said to P.O.M. 'He's getting me very

  depressed.'

  'Should we talk about how well he shoots?'

  'Too early in the evening. I'm not gloomy. I've just seen that kind of

  country before. It will be good for us all right. Take some of your belly

  off, Governor.'

  The next day I found that I was all wrong about that country.

  We had breakfast before daylight and were started before sunrise,

  climbing the hill beyond the village in single file. Ahead there was the

  local guide with a spear, then Droopy with my heavy gun and a water bottle,

  then me with the Springfield, Pop with the Mannlicher, P.O.M. pleased, as

  always to carry nothing, M'Cola with Pop's heavy gun and another water

  bottle, and finally two local citizens with spears, water bags, and a chop

  box with lunch. We planned to lay up in the heat of the middle of the day

  and not get back until dark. It was fine climbing in the cool fresh morning

  and very different from toiling up this same trail last evening in the

  sunset with all the rocks and dirt giving back the heat
of the day. The

  trail was used regularly by cattle and the dust was powdered dry and, now,

  lightly moistened from the dew. There were many hyena tracks and, as the

  trail came on to a ridge of grey rock so that you could look down on both

  sides into a steep ravine, and then went on along the edge of the canyon, we

  saw a fresh rhino track in one of the dusty patches below the rocks.

  'He's just gone on ahead,' Pop said. 'They must wander all over here at

  night.'

  Below, at the bottom of the canyon, we could see the tops of high trees

  and in an opening see the flash of water. Across were the steep hillside and

  the gullies we had studied last night. Droopy and the local guide, the one

  who had been chased by the rhino, were whispering together. Then they

  started down a steep path that went in long slants down the side of the

  canyon.

  We stopped. I had not seen P.O.M. was limping, and in sudden whispered

  family bitterness there was a highly-righteous-on-both-sides clash,

  historically on unwearable shoes and boots in the past, and imperatively on

  these, which hurt. The hurt was lessened by cutting off the toes of the

  heavy short wool socks worn over ordinary socks, and then, by removing the

  socks entirely, the boots made possible. Going down-hill steeply made these

  Spanish shooting boots too short in the toe and there was an old argument,

  about this length of boot and whether the bootmaker, whose part I had taken,

  unwittingly first, only as interpreter, and finally embraced his theory

  patriotically as a whole and, I believed, by logic, had overcome it by

  adding on to the heel. But they hurt now, a stronger logic, and the

  situation was unhelped by the statement that men's new boots always hurt for

  weeks before they became comfortable. Now, heavy socks removed, stepping

  tentatively, trying the pressure of the leather against the toes, the

  argument past, she wanting not to suffer, but to keep up and please Mr. J.

  P., me ashamed at having been a four-letter man about boots, at being

  righteous against pain, at being righteous at all, at ever being righteous,

  stopping to whisper about it, both of us grinning at what was whispered, it

  all right now, the boots too, without the heavy socks, much better, me

  hating all righteous bastards now, one absent American friend especially,

  having just removed myself from that category, certainly never to be

  righteous again, watching Droopy ahead, we went down the long slant of the

  trail toward the bottom of the canyon where the trees were heavy and tall

  and the floor of the canyon, that from above had been a narrow gash, opened

  to a forest-banked stream.

  We stood now in the shade of trees with great smooth trunks, circled at

  their base with the line of roots that showed in rounded ridges up the

  trunks like arteries, the trunks the yellow green of a French forest on a

  day in winter after rain. But these trees had a great spread of branches and

  were in leaf and below them, in the stream bed in the sun, reeds like

  papyrus grass grew thick as wheat and twelve feet tall. There was a game

  trail through the grass along the stream and Droopy was bent down looking at

  it. M'Cola went over and looked and they both followed it a little way,

  stooped close over it, then came back to us.

  'Nyati,' M'Cola whispered. 'Buffalo.' Droopy whispered to Pop and then

  Pop said, softly in his throaty, whisky whisper, 'They're buff gone down the

  river. Droop says there are some big bulls. They haven't come back.'

  'Let's follow them,' I said. 'I'd rather get another buff than rhino.'

  'It's as good a chance as any for rhino, too,' Pop said.

  'By God, isn't it a great looking country?' I said.

  'Splendid,' Pop said. 'Who would have imagined it?'

  'The trees are like Andre's pictures,' P.O.M. said. 'It's simply

  beautiful. Look at that green. It's Masson. Why can't a good painter see

  this country?'

  'How are your boots?'

  'Fine.'

  As we trailed the buffalo we went very slowly and quietly. There was no

  wind and we knew that when the breeze came up it would be from the east and

  blow up the canyon toward us. We followed the game trail down the river-bed

  and as we went the grass was much higher. Twice we had to get down to crawl

  and the reeds were so thick you could not see two feet into them. Droop

  found a fresh rhino track, too, in the mud. I began to think about what

  would happen if a rhino came barging along this tunnel and who would do

  what. It was exciting but I did not like it. It was too much like being in a

  trap and there was P.O.M. to think about. Then as the stream made a bend and

  we came out of the high grass to the bank I smelled game very distinctly. I

  do not smoke, and hunting at home I have several times smelled elk in the

  rutting season before I have seen them, and I can smell clearly where an old

  bull has lain in the forest. The bull elk has a strong musky smell. It is a

  strong but pleasant odour and I know it well, but this smell I did not know.

  'I can smell them,' I whispered to Pop. He believed me.

  'What is it?'

  'I don't know but it's plenty strong. Can't you?'

  'No.'

  'Ask Droop.'

  Droopy nodded and grinned.

  'They take snuff,' Pop said. 'I don't know whether they can scent or

  not.'

  We went on into another bed of reeds that were high over our heads,

  putting each foot down silently before lifting the other, walking as quietly

  as in a dream or a slow motion picture. I could smell whatever it was

  clearly now, all of the time, sometimes stronger than at others. I did not

  like it at all. We were close to the bank now, and ahead, the game trail

  went straight out into a long slough of higher reeds than any we had come

  through.

  'I can smell them close as hell,' I whispered to Pop. 'No kidding.

  Really.'

  'I believe you,' Pop said. 'Should we get up here on to the bank and

  skirt this bit? We'll be above it.'

  'Good.' Then, when we were up, I said. 'That tall stun' had me spooked.

  I wouldn't like to hunt in that.'

  'How'd you like to hunt elephant in that?' Pop whispered.

  'I wouldn't do it.'

  'Do you really hunt elephant in grass like that?' P.O.M. asked.

  'Yes,' Pop said. 'Get up on somebody's shoulders to shoot.'

  Better men than I am do it, I thought. I wouldn't do it.

  We went along the grassy right bank, on a sort of shelf, now in the

  open, skirting a slough of high dry reeds. Beyond on the opposite bank were

  the heavy trees and above them the steep bank of the canyon. You could not

  see the stream. Above us, on the right, were the hills, wooded in patches of

  orchard bush. Ahead, at the end of the slough of reeds the banks narrowed

  and the branches of the big trees almost covered the stream. Suddenly Droopy

  grabbed me
and we both crouched down. He put the big gun in my hand and took

  the Springfield. He pointed and around a curve in the bank I saw the head of

  a rhino with a long, wonderful-looking horn. The head was swaying and I

  could see the ears forward and twitching, and see the little pig eyes. I

  slipped the safety catch and motioned Droopy down. Then I heard M'Cola

  saying, 'Toto! Toto!' and he grabbed my arm. Droopy was whispering,

  'Manamouki! Manamouki! Manamouki!' very fast and he and M'Cola were frantic

  that I should not shoot. It was a cow rhino with a calf, and as I lowered

  the gun she gave a snort, crashed in the reeds, and was gone. I never saw

  the calf. We could see the reeds swaying where the two of them were moving

  and then it was all quiet.

  'Damn shame,' Pop whispered. 'She had a beautiful horn.'

  'I was all set to bust her,' I said. 'I couldn't tell she was a cow.'

  'M'Cola saw the calf.'

  M'Cola was whispering to Pop and nodding his head emphatically.

  'He says there's another rhino in there,' Pop said. 'That he heard him

  snort.'

  'Let's get higher, where we can see them if they break, and throw

  something in,' I said.

  'Good idea,' Pop agreed. 'Maybe the bull's there.'

  We went a little higher up the bank where we could look out over the

  lake of high reeds and, with Pop holding his big gun ready and I with the

  safety off mine, M'Cola threw a club into the reeds where he had heard the

  snort. There was a wooshing snort and no movement, not a stir in the reeds.

  Then there was a crashing farther away and we could see the reeds swaying

  with the rush of something through them toward the opposite bank, but could

  not see what was making the movement. Then I saw the black back, the

  wide-swept, point-lifted horns and then the quick-moving, climbing rush of a

  buffalo up the other bank. He went up, his neck up and out, his head

  horn-heavy, his withers rounded like a fighting bull, in fast strong-legged

  climb. I was holding on the point where his neck joined his shoulder when

  Pop stopped me.

  'He's not a big one,' he said softly. 'I wouldn't take him unless you

  want him for meat.'

  He looked big to nie and now he stood, his head up, broadside, his head

  swung toward us.

  'I've got three more on the licence and we're leaving their country,' I

  said.

  'It's awfully good meat,' Pop whispered. 'Go ahead then. Bust him. But

  be ready for the rhino after you shoot.'

  I sat down, the big gun feeling heavy and unfamiliar, held on the

  buff's shoulder, squeezed off and flinched without firing. Instead of the

  sweet clean pull of the Springfield with the smooth, unhesitant release at

  the end, this trigger came to what, in a squeeze, seemed metal stuck against

  metal. It was like when you shoot in a nightmare. I couldn't squeeze it and

  I corrected from my flinch, held my breath, and pulled the trigger. It

  pulled off with a jerk and the big gun made a rocking explosion out of which

  I came, seeing the buffalo still on his feet, and going out of sight to the

  left in a climbing run, to let off the second barrel and throw a burst of

  rock dust and dirt over his hind quarters. He was out of shot before I could

  reload the double-barrelled 470 and we had all heard the snorting and the

  crashing of another rhino that had gone out of the lower end of the reeds

  and on under the heavy trees on our side without showing more than a glimpse

  of his bulk in the reeds.

  'It was the bull,' Pop said. 'He's gone down the stream.'

  'N'Dio. Doumi! Doumi!' Droopy insisted it was a bull. 'I hit the damned

  buff,' I said. 'God knows where.

  To hell with those heavy guns. The trigger pull put me off.'

  'You'd have killed him with the Springfield,' Pop said.

  'I'd know where I hit him anyway. I thought with the four-seven I'd

  kill him or miss him,' I said. 'Instead, now we've got him wounded.'

  'He'll keep,' Pop said. 'We want to give him plenty of time.'

  'I'm afraid I gut-shot him.'

  'You can't tell. Going off fast like that he might be dead in a hundred