Manyoro shrugged with resignation. Then he asked, ‘What
‘I will not have a
Manyoro looked at him askance. ‘And if someone knocks over the beer pot, M’bogo, what then?’
‘Then, Manyoro, I will poke the buffalo in the eye with this.’ Leon hefted a heavy stick he had picked up from beside the track.
‘That is not a weapon. It is not even a good louse-scratcher. Here.’ Manyoro reversed one of his two stabbing spears, and handed it butt first to Leon. ‘A real weapon for you to carry.’
It was a lovely blade, three foot long and sharpened along both edges. Leon tested it on his forearm. It shaved the hairs as cleanly and effortlessly as his straight razor would have done. ‘Thank you, my brother, but I hope I shall not need to use it. Take the spoor again, Manyoro, but be ready to run if Kichwa Muzuru kicks over the beer pot!’
Leon left them and went back to the hunting car where Graf Otto was taking his rifle out of its leather slip case. Leon felt a little easier when he saw that it was a large-calibre double-barrelled weapon, probably a continental 10.75mm. It had more than enough knock-down power to deal effectively with a buffalo.
‘So, Courtney, are you ready for a little sport?’ Graf Otto asked, as Leon came up to him. He had an unlit cigar between his lips and a loden hunting hat pushed to the back of his head. He was loading steel-jacketed cartridges into the open magazine of the rifle.
‘I hope you’re not planning on having too much fun, sir, but, yes, I’m ready.’
‘I see that you are.’ He grinned at the spear in Leon’s hand. ‘Are you hunting rabbits or buffalo with that?’
‘If you stick it into the right place it will do the job.’
‘I make you a little promise, Courtney. If you kill a buffalo with that I will teach you to fly an aeroplane.’
‘I’m overwhelmed by your magnanimity, sir.’ Leon bowed slightly. ‘Will you please ask Fräulein von Wellberg to remain in the car until we return? These animals are unpredictable, and once the first shot is fired, anything might happen.’
He removed the cigar from his mouth to address Eva. ‘Will you be a good girl today,
‘Aren’t I always a good girl, Otto?’ she asked, but something in her eyes negated the sugary response.
He replaced the cigar in his mouth and handed her his silver Vesta case. She flipped open the lid and shook out a red-tipped match, struck it against the sole of her boot, and when it flared, she held it at arm’s length to burn off the sulphur smoke, then applied the flame to the tip of the cigar. Graf Otto was watching Leon’s eyes as he puffed at the Cohiba. Leon knew that this little demonstration of domination and subservience was probably for his benefit. The other man was not unobservant: he must be able to sense the emotional thunder in the air and was marking his thrall over Eva. Leon kept his expression neutral.
Then Eva intervened again softly: ‘Please be careful, Otto. I would not know what to do without you.’
Leon wondered if she was protecting him from the Graf’s jealous anger. If that was her motive, it worked well.
Graf Otto chuckled. ‘Worry for the buffalo, not for me.’ He shouldered the rifle and, without another word, followed the Masai into the thorn thicket. Leon fell in behind him, and they went forward quietly.
Once the three bulls were in heavy cover they had spread out to feed and their tracks meandered back and forth. It would have been only too easy while following one to run straight into another of the trio, so they moved slowly, checking the way ahead after every few paces. They had taken no more than a hundred when they heard the crackle of breaking twigs, followed by a soft snort nearby. Manyoro held up a hand, the signal to stand still and be quiet. There was silence for a full minute, which seemed much longer, then the rustle of vegetation. Something large was pushing its way through the thorn, coming directly towards them. Leon touched Graf Otto’s arm, and he slipped the rifle from his shoulder and held it at high port across his chest.
Suddenly the wall of thorn bush parted directly ahead and the head and shoulders of a buffalo pushed through the opening. It was a scarred and battered old creature, one horn broken off to a jagged stump, the other almost worn away by constant sharpening against tree-trunks and termite mounds. The neck was scrawny and bald in patches. The nearest eye was white and glassy, completely blinded by fly-borne ophthalmia. At first it did not see them. For a while it stood and chewed at a clump of grass, loose straws and strings of saliva hanging from the corners of its mouth. It shook its head to drive away the little black flies that crawled around the lids of the blind eye, swarming to drink the yellow pus that dribbled down the buffalo’s cheek.
