“Every gory detail. You're lucky to be alive.”
Before Martin could respond, Rigby interrupted. “How are the clients?”
“They're resting before dinner. He's near seventy. His wife's half his age. Shot a respectable kudu two days ago. He's a typical American— lots of name-dropping and bragging about money. Sorry Spooner, I forgot you're a Yank.”
“Don't sweat it,” Jesse said. “I think I'll take a nap before dinner.”
Martin waited until Spooner disappeared into his tent. “He seems nice enough. Good-looking chap. What's your take on him?”
“He's only been here a few hours. I plan on doing some heavy walking. Our Mr. Spooner's coming with me. Ask me the same question tomorrow.”
“Rigby I'd be careful, he looks very fit.” “Nonsense. He's bulked up from weightlifting. I'll walk this guy until he drops. The big ones never last.”
***
Jesse slept soundly, but he woke up before sunrise. When he thought about Lynn Allison, a dull ache filled his belly. I wonder what we'll say to each other. Better keep the meeting prim and proper in front of old Croxford, he thought, looking at Rigby's tent.
The nights in Africa belong to the predators, but the mornings are reserved for song birds. The animals make a temporary truce to suckle their young. The animal screeches and screams of the darkness are replaced by the mournful cooing of wood doves. The loud bark of a baboon startled Jesse. He rolled over on his side and looked through the tent mesh. A spider had spun its web between the tent poles. The diamondshaped web glistened with earlymorning dew. He reached under the tent flap and plucked one of the web's silk threads. The architect scrambled to reclaim a cocooned tsetse fly.
Rigby emerged from his tent. He realigned his genitals with one hand, closed off a nostril with two fingers of the other and snorted a glob of phlegm into the dirt.
“You need to stop smoking. Come take a look at this spider and tell me if it's poisonous,” said Jesse.
“I don't have to look at it. It's like I told you before—everything on this continent's poisonous, including the advice. How'd you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” he lied.
“My friend, you're in for a fair amount of walking. Dress lightly. It's cold now, but it'll get hot in a couple of hours. I can't have you dying from heatstroke.”
“Yes, Baba,” Jesse answered.
“Say, does that spider have black and yellow stripes?”
“Wait just a minute. Yes it does.”
“It's a leaping button spider, probably a female. The females have the rather nasty habit of eating the males after they mate.”
“But are they poisonous?”
“The African button spider's responsible for more deaths in Africa than venomous snakes,” he responded.
Jesse's scream made Rigby laugh. He wished the spider story was true. Let the games begin, he thought.
***
Croxford had had similar problems with other hunting clients, but this one was especially troubling. The client, clearly in the waning years of life, went to bed early. His wife, who was having a lifeanddeath struggle with the aging process, continued drinking well into the night. Her hair was blonde, but after two weeks on safari, her roots told a different story. She troweled her makeup on like a bricklayer filling in cracks. Her enhanced breasts struggled against the confines of an open blouse. She was a woman who believed all men were hopelessly attracted to her. Her flirtations with Jesse started out innocently enough, but quickly became touchyfeely. Jesse was clearly uncomfortable, and when Rigby told him he needed to get a good night's sleep, he jumped at the chance to excuse himself. When Martin and Rigby excluded the woman by conversing in Afrikaans, she got the message and went to bed.
***
Late rains in Africa are a blessing for farmers, but a curse for hunters. The animals don't congregate at waterholes making them hard to find. Rigby's plan was to drive twenty miles and then walk back, hoping to stumble on fresh buffalo spoor. The group drove out as the sun peeked over the hills of Matetsi. Blue helmeted guinea fowl trotted along in single file just out of reach of their churning tires. The birds would flush and then land on the road as if they were engaged in a game of chicken. Croxford and Spooner rode in the back with the two Matabele trackers and the black game scout. Rigby glanced at Jesse. His bubbling enthusiasm for Africa was scratching at Rigby's nerves. Spooner, let's see if you're still so cheerful tonight.
The game scout was a Shona. His job was to enforce the game laws. The man rapped his knuckles on the truck's cab and jumped out before they could stop. His scowl scrunched up as he disappeared into the bushes with a roll of blue toilet paper stuck over the barrel of his Kalashnikov. This ritual was repeated four times before Rigby exploded. “Enough is enough! Martin, I need the first aid kit.”
When the man reemerged from the bushes, he looked clammy. Rigby emptied some pills in the man's hand and handed him a canteen. He bowed and seemed appreciative. With his rebellious bowels calmed, they made better progress. One of the trackers yelled to stop. Everyone got out of the truck and encircled the man, examining some animal tracks.
“How much time has passed since the buffalo made this spoor?” Rigby asked.
“The nayati passed water here six hours ago,” the tracker said. He smelled a handful of the sand infused with urine. “The old bull will seek out the shade of an acacia to chew his cud.”
Croxford, Spooner, the game scout, and the trackers started walking. Martin drove the client along a dirt path paralleling their route. If the trackers found fresh buffalo spoor, they could bring in the client.
“Spooner, stay close to the trackers.” He engaged a cartridge into the chamber and slung the rifle onto his shoulder. “Watch where you step. This area is loaded with black mambas.” Rigby's eyes twinkled. His mouth curled around a cigarette in a smile.
They walked for three hours. Spooner shaded his eyes and squinted up at the white sun. Sweat burned his eyes like whiskey. Fatigue made him clumsy. He stumbled on hidden rocks and got entangled in the hookthorn bushes.
At first, Rigby called out the names of animals and birds. “There's a lilac-breasted roller on that limb,” or “Look, that's a nice waterbuck.” Fatigue sapped his enthusiasm.
It was an undeclared war between them. Rigby had walked the hills of Metetsi for thirty years, but Jesse was younger. Africa was hot, but so was football practice in August. After five hours of hard walking, Croxford conceded. His voice sounded raspy. “Spooner, let's stop and give the trackers a chance to rest.”
“This is unbelievable. The game scout seems to be feeling better. What kind of pills did you give him? How many did he take?” Jesse asked.
“It was Imodium. He took the whole lot, actually.”
“The whole bottle?” You can't be serious.”
“I wouldn't worry about him. Africans are tough.”
“Would it be all right with you if I run up that hill? It looks like a great place to take a photograph.”
Rigby shook his head. “Spooner, if you're crazy enough to climb that hill—have at it. We'll wait for you.”
Jesse climbed the hill. When he was sure Rigby couldn't see him, he collapsed behind some rocks. He held his canteen up and poured water over his head. I'd rather die than let you win, he thought, peeking down at Croxford. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye; it was a large brown snake. The snake's tongue flickered. The inside of its mouth was velvety black. The mamba's eyes fastened on Jesse as he backed away. Jesse hurdled a boulder, lost his footing and then slid down the hill on his backside. At the bottom, he jumped to his feet like nothing happened. Rigby laughed. “See any snakes? Before Jesse could answer, one of the trackers reappeared. Rigby sent the other man to bring back the client.
He exhaled some smoke and then turned to Jesse. “The tracker found buffalo spoor. Are you carrying your peashooter?” Rather than answer, Jesse took the 9mm. out of his pocket and offered it to Croxford.
“Nice weap
on. I reckon you need two bullets. If things go badly, you could shoot me and then shoot yourself. A slingshot would do more damage. It takes a big piece of lead to stop a buffalo. A wounded Cape buffalo is like a runaway freight train. These old solitary bulls can be irritable without those extra eyes and ears of a herd to warn them.” Jesse was too rattled to hear everything. You're wrong when you said I need two bullets, thought Jesse. I only need one.
“Martin says the client's an excellent shot, but he's over seventy.” Spooner, this is no time to be a hero. Run like hell, if I tell you to. Try to keep me between you and the buffalo. Got it?”
“And how fast can they run?”
“A buffalo can outrun the fastest football player in the world.”
“So I should only be concerned about outrunning you and the client.”
“I guess you could look at it that way. Spooner, a couple of hundred years ago, your ancestors hunted Cape buffalo with spears. God only knows, how many of them got killed. This is two thousand pounds of rage, not a Holstein.”
Before Jesse could say something clever, the client and a tracker walked out of the underbrush. The client was laboring heavily. His safari khakis were soaked in sweat. He handed Rigby his rifle. Rigby checked the safety and gave it back to him.
Their walking was purposeful. One tracker checked the wind direction by sprinkling bits of grass. One hour labored into two and the guns grew heavier on their shoulders. Jesse sensed that nothing would make Croxford happier than to see him chickenout. It'll never happen, he thought, laughing at himself. Rigby, I'm a bigger fool than you are. He stepped on a twig and cringed. His apologetic expression was not received well by Rigby. The head tracker's behavior changed. He placed his finger to his lips, pleading for them to move quietly.
The Cape buffalo stood motionless in the elephant grass watching his pursuers. The bull was two years past his last breeding. The younger bulls would not tolerate his presence and the cows, sensing his frailty, shunned him. His flanks shuddered from pesky insects. Red-billed ox-peckers feasted on the ticks attached to his back and neck. The bird's chirping warned him. For the moment, the buffalo's aggressive nature was conquered by its fear of humans. Shiny strings of drool hung from his wet muzzle. The bull's drooping horns were caked with dried mud. His shoveled ears were shredded from failed lion attacks. The bull grunted, and bolted. The report from the client's rifle boomed like thunder. “What the fuck? I didn't tell you to shoot,” Rigby screamed.
“I hit him,” the hunter yelled.
“Oh, you hit him all right. Bloody Portuguese heart shot. Right up the bung. Isn't this a lovely cockup? You there, check the spoor for blood,” Rigby yelled to one of his trackers.
The tracker showed Rigby a handful of bloodied semidigested grass. The buffalo was gutshot. “Take the client back to the truck,” he told the tracker. “Give me his weapon.” He cocked his hat to shade his face from the sun's glare and grinned at Jesse. “It's my job to put him out of his misery. There's no need for you to get involved in this. Why don't you follow them back to the truck?” Rigby said, nodding at the client.
“Oh, no you don't. I wouldn't miss this for the world.”
“Suit yourself. Just stay out of my way.”
It would take the client and the game warden an hour to reach the truck and another hour for Martin to walk back. Rigby looked at the setting sun. There wasn't time to wait for Martin. He handed Jesse the client's rifle. “Spooner, ever use one of these?”
“Not under these circumstances.” “When I told you these buffalo hunts were routine, I guess I misspoke. Don't look so worried, he may already be down.”
They followed the buffalo's blood spoor. The grass was so thick they had trouble seeing each other. When the tracker held up his hand, they froze. He was listening for tickbirds.
The old bull needed water to quench the fire in his gut. The scent of water led the buffalo into a box canyon. The blackened sides of the gorge were streaked with white crystallized urine stains from hyraxes. The animals scampered into the fault crevices. Red aloe plants and strangler figs clung to the rocks. Howling baboons raced along the upper rim. “The old nayati waits for us by the waterhole,” the tracker whispered to Rigby. “The hunter has made a very bad shot.” He pointed at a scrape mark in the sand indicating that the buffalo was dragging his intestines.
“This is as far as you go, Spooner,” Rigby said. I'll send one of them back for you when it's over.”
The wounded buffalo watched his tormentors from the shade of a fever tree. Vultures waited impatiently on its limbs. Marabou storks circled above the tree. The water had not eased the buffalo's pain. The bull slung his muzzle to shoo away the flies.
Rigby's first shot was accurate and so was his second. Both bullets buried into the buffalo's chest. A rush of adrenaline fueled the animal's rage. The bull crashed into the shallow water and charged straight for Rigby. Rigby broke open his double and slammed two solids home, but when he looked up, he realized there wasn't time to fire. He was sure he would be gored. He feinted left and dove to the right.
The crack of Spooner's rifle rang out. His shot missed the animal's vitals, but the .458 slug smashed into its foreleg. The femur snapped causing the bull to cartwheel. The buffalo came to rest in a heap at Rigby's feet. Jesse ran up and fired another shot into its brain. The animal's death bellow reverberated in the gorge.
After the dust cleared, Rigby touched the buffalo's eye with his gun barrel. “He's finished,” he said, going down on one knee. “God damn you, Spooner. I thought I told you to stay put. I'd already made up my mind about you, and now look what you've done.” After examining the wound that killed the animal, he turned to Jesse. “Thanks for saving my life,” he said, still breathing hard.
“It was my pleasure,” Jesse answered, mimicking a British accent.
The trackers started to sing. One of them cut the animal's stomach open. The buffalo's innards spilled out on the ground saturating the air with the smell of rotting marigolds.
“What's the song about?” Jesse asked.
“It's an old Matabele hunting song. They're singing about you, Jesse. It's really quite an honor. Oh, there's one more thing. They're saving its testicles for your dinner. A bit chewy, but a real delicacy. Spooner, you look green. I hope you're not going to be sick. Can't let them see their hero pitch his cookies.” He handed his canteen to Jesse.
***
The next morning they left Metetsi for the twohundredkilometer drive to Rigby's farm. An air of civility replaced their misgivings about each other. After three hours, Jesse took over the driving. Their conversation was light-hearted. Jesse was careful not to mention Lynn Allison. He didn't want to press his luck. Rigby asked a question. “Say Jesse, just out of curiosity, where were you trying to hit that buffalo?”
“If I told you the back leg, would you believe me?”
“No way.”
“I didn't think so. Tell me about the lion hunt with Max Turner. I saw the lion's head in Max's den.”
“What did he tell you?” Rigby asked.
“Just that he shot it. He said something about a man getting killed.”
“Did he, now? The man was a friend of mine.” When Rigby wouldn't elaborate, Jesse decided not to press the issue.
Thinking of Sam triggered one of Rigby's flashbacks. “Gentlemen, I'll not bore you with politics. Politics is the business of pimps. We're military men. We fix what politicians bugger. What do you know about the Johnston attack?” the colonel asked.
“Sir, I grew up on a farm next to the Johnston place. I attended Plum Tree with Seth Johnston. When I heard about the raid, I was horrified,” I said.
“The terrorists came over from Mozambique. They made Mr. Johnston watch, while they raped his two daughters. One girl was only eleven. The older one had just turned twelve. When they finished, they killed them. Mercifully, they also killed Johnston. The barbarity is beyond belief.”
“Sir, I had no idea,” I said.
�
�Any news on Mrs. Johnston?” asked Willie.
“I thought you knew. Mrs. Johnston hanged herself yesterday.”
I was speechless as was Willie. “Take your time, gentlemen. These are bloody hard times,” said the colonel. I remember seeing the lust for revenge in Sam's eyes.
The colonel droned on about the need to stop the attacks on the farmers. He concluded by saying, “Your job is to locate that camp and call in an air strike. I want that camp incinerated. We must send a message, if you harm our women and children, the consequences will be horrific.”
Jesse reached over and touched Rigby's arm to wake him. Rigby yawned and rolled his head to work out the stiffness in his neck. “How far is it to your farm?” Jesse asked.
“Not far. We need to stop at the next farm for petrol. I should warn you about these people. They're our version of what you call rednecks. The farmer's name is John William. He has five daughters. They ripped the pants off of the last stranger I brought here.”
“This sounds like more of your bullshit.”
Undeterred by Jesse's skepticism, Rigby continued. “These people have lived here so long—nobody knows where they came from. Some say John William's the missing link. He has five daughters. One's an albino with Tourette syndrome and a stuttering problem. We named her ‘Velma the Vulgarian.' All of his daughters weigh over fifteen stones. That's twohundred pounds to you. Seems like they're always pregnant.
“They keep a three-legged, one-eared hyena as a pet. They named him Oscar. They raised him from a pup. Couple of years back, Oscar tried to hook up with a pack of wild hyenas. Naturally, they mauled him. That's when he lost the leg and his ear. If Oscar tries to sniff your private parts, I'd let him. He gets testy if he's rejected.” Rigby couldn't control his laughter.
“I'm not getting out of the truck.”
“It might be better.”
“You said his daughters are always pregnant. What happened to their husbands?”
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 14