Ahead, in the next glade, two Tommy rams were feeding. They both had good heads, exceptionally long and symmetrical and their tails were switching as they fed quickly and eagerly. Mthuka nodded that he had seen them and turned the car so that when he stopped it my approach would be covered. I ejected two shells from the Springfield and put in two solids, lowered the bolt and got down and started to walk toward the heavy clump of bush as though I took no interest in it. I did not stoop over because the bush was sufficient cover and I had come to the conclusion that in stalking, when there was much game around, it was better to walk upright and in a disinterested way. Otherwise, you risked alarming other animals that could see you and they might alarm the animal you were after. Remembering that Miss Mary had asked me to show off I raised my left hand carefully and slapped it against the side of my neck. This was calling the location of the shot I would try for and anything else was worthless. No one can call their shot that way on a small animal like a Tommy when he may run. But if I should hit him there it was good for morale and if it did not, it was an obvious impossibility.
It was pleasant walking through the grass with the white flowers in it and I slouched along with the rifle held behind me close to my right leg, the muzzle pointing down. As I walked forward I did not think about anything at all except that it was a lovely early evening and that I was lucky to be in Africa. Now I was at the far right edge of the clump and I should have crouched and crawled but there was too much grass and too many flowers and I wore glasses and I was too old to crawl. So I pulled the bolt back, holding my finger on the trigger so there was no snick, took my finger off the trigger and lowered it into place silently, checked the aperture in the rear sight and then stepped out past the right end of the clump.
The two Tommy rams broke into full speed as I raised the rifle. The furthest one had his head turned toward me as I came out. They dug in with their small hooves into a bounding gallop. I picked up the second one in the sights, lowered my weight onto my left front foot, held with him and passed him smoothly with the sights and squeezed when the rifle had gone ahead of him. There was the report of the rifle, the dry whunck, and as I shucked in the second shell I could see his four legs stiff in the air and his white belly and then the legs lowered slowly. I walked out to him, hoping I had not shot him in the behind and raked him or given him the high spinal by mistake or hit him in the head and I heard the car coming. Charo dropped out from it with his knife out and ran to the Tommy and then stood there.
I came up and said, “Halal.”
“Hapana,” Charo said and touched the poor dead eyes with the point of his knife.
“Halal anyway.”
“Hapana,” Charo said. I had never seen him cry and he was very close to it. This was a religious crisis and he was an old and devout man.
“OK,” I said. “Stick him, Ngui.”
Everybody had been very quiet on account of Charo. He went back to the hunting car and there were only us unbelievers. Mthuka shook hands with me and bit his lips. He was thinking of his father being deprived of the Tommy meat. Ngui was laughing but trying not to show it. Pop’s gun bearer that he had left with us had a face like a round, very brown elf. He put his hand up to his head in sorrow. Then slapped his neck. The porter looked on happy, cheerful and stupid and happy to be out with hunters.
“Where did you hit him?” Mary asked.
“In the neck, I’m afraid.”
Ngui showed her the hole and he and Mthuka and the porter picked the ram up and swung him into the back of the car.
“It’s a little too much like witchcraft,” Mary said. “When I said to show off I didn’t mean that far off.”
We came into camp, pulling around carefully to drop off Miss Mary and raise no dust.
“It was a lovely afternoon,” she said. “Thank you, everybody, so much.”
She went toward her tent where Mwindi would have the hot bathwater ready to pour into the canvas tub and I was happy that she was happy about her shot and I was sure, aided by the Jinny flask, that we would work out all the problems and the hell with a small variation of fourteen inches vertical at twenty-five yards on a lion. Sure the hell with that. The car drove out, gently, to the grounds where we butchered and skinned out. Keiti came out with the others following and I got down and said, “Memsahib shot a wildebeest beautifully.”
“Mzuri,” Keiti said.
We left the lights of the car on for the game to be dressed out. Ngui had my best knife out and was joining the skinner, who had started work and who was squatting by the wildebeest.
I went over and tapped Ngui on the shoulder and drew him out of the light. He was intent at the butchering but he understood and came fast out of the light.
“Take a good big cut high on the back for the Shamba,” I said. I marked it with my finger on his own back.
“Ndio,” he said.