At four in the morning it was still dark when he and Hennie drove up to the rendezvous in the two vehicles, with the skinners and trackers, but Kermit was waiting for them. Leon was impressed. He had doubted that he would show up. They followed a game trail through the remaining hours of darkness, Manyoro loping ahead to warn of stumps and holes. It was cold and Kermit huddled under a sheet of tarpaulin to shelter from the wind. When the trail reached a dry riverbed which presented an impassable obstacle to the trucks they parked under a tree and climbed out. When they took out the rifles, Kermit looked hard at Leon’s. ‘That piece has had a long life.’
‘It’s seen some action,’ Leon agreed. Percy had lent him a beaten-up old .404 Jeffreys from his own battery of firearms because its ammunition was less than a quarter of the price and in more plentiful supply than that for the .470 Holland. Despite its appearance the weapon was accurate and reliable, but Leon was not proud of it.
‘Can you shoot it worth a damn?’ Kermit mocked him lightly.
‘On a good day.’
‘Let’s hope that today’s a good day,’ Kermit needled.
‘We shall see.’
‘Where are we heading?’ Kermit changed the subject.
‘Late yesterday Manyoro picked up a large herd that was heading this way. He’s leading us to it.’
They went down into the riverbed and crossed below a large green pool whose waters had not yet dried up from the previous wet season. The edges had been heavily trampled by the many animals, including herds of buffalo, who were regularly drinking from it. They went up the far bank into an area of flowering acacia and open glades covered with fresh green grass.
The dawn came up in splendour, the air cool and sweet. The denizens of the forest were coming to life: the men paused for a few minutes at a clearing to watch a troop of baboons foraging for insects and roots. They were led by the young males, vigilant and alert to danger. Following them came the breeding females, holding their tails high to display their naked pink posteriors and pudenda, advertising their maturity and availability. Some carried infants perched on their backs like jockeys. The older youngsters frolicked and chased each other rambunctiously about the glade. As a rear-guard, the large dog males moved with a swaggering arrogance, ready to rush forward to confront any threat that the younger males in the vanguard discovered. A small herd of bushbuck, delicately built antelope with spiral horns and creamy stripes across their shoulders, kept pace with the troop. They were using the screen of vigilant apes as sentries and lookouts for leopards and other predators.
When the parade of animals had passed the men went on, but stopped again behind Manyoro as he pointed with his spear at the soft earth of the far side of the glade that had been churned by the passage of great hoofs. ‘This is the herd.’
‘How many, Manyoro?’
‘Two hundred, perhaps three.’
‘When?’
Manyoro pointed out a short arc of the dawn sky.
‘Less than an hour.’ Leon translated for Kermit. ‘They’re feeding slowly towards thicker cover below the hills where they will lie up during the heat of midday. Remember now what I told you. We shoot only the three- and four-year-old females.’
‘Why can’t we shoot the big bulls?’ Kermit demurred.
‘Because the meat is as tough as motor tyres, and tastes a hell of a lot worse. Even a hungry Ndorobo wouldn’t touch it.’ Kermit nodded unhappily.
Leon looked back at Manyoro. ‘Take the spoor,’ he said.
They had not gone more than a mile before the open bush became much denser. Within a short space it was so thick that they could not see through it for more than a few yards. Suddenly Manyoro held up his hand and they stopped to listen. From ahead came the crackle of many large bodies moving through the under-growth, and then they heard the plaintive bellow of a weaning calf pleading with its dam for the udder.
Leon leaned towards Kermit and whispered, ‘Right! Here we go. Don’t shoot until one of us does. We have to get in close enough to make certain of brain shots. Don’t shoot for the body. We don’t want to damage the meat, and it won’t be very good for our health to have to follow a wounded buffalo through this thick stuff.’ He nodded to Manyoro and they went on.
They came into an area of second growth where, the previous dry season, a bushfire had burned through. The scrub was low enough to expose hundreds of dark bovine backs, but high enough to cover the rest of their bodies. The herd was browsing as they moved so their heads were down. Then one came up and gazed directly at them. The base of the horns met on top of its head in a rounded boss, and the tips curled down on each side to give the beast a mournful appearance. They froze immediately and the buffalo seemed not to recognize them as human. It was chewing a mouthful of coarse grass, and after a while it snorted and lowered its head to continue feeding.
