We went to bed early and in the night it rained a little, not a real rain but a shower from the mountains, and in the morning we were up before daylight and had climbed up to the top of the steep grassy ridge that looked down on to the camp, on to the ravine of the river bed, and across to the steep opposite bank of the stream, and from where we could see all the hilly slopes and the edge of the forest. It was not yet light when some geese flew overhead and the light was still too grey to be able to see the edge of the forest clearly in the glasses. We had scouts out on three different hill tops and we were waiting for it to be light enough for us to see them if they signalled.
Then Pop said, ‘Look at that son of a bitch’, and shouted at M’Cola to bring the rifles. M’Cola went jumping down the hill, and across the stream, directly opposite us, a rhino was running with a quick trot along the top of the bank. As we watched he speeded up and came, fast trotting, angling down across the face of the bank. He was a muddy red, his horn showed clearly, and there was nothing ponderous in his quick, purposeful movement. I was very excited at seeing him.
‘He’ll cross the stream,’ Pop said. ‘He’s shootable.’
M’Cola put the Springfield in my hand and I opened it to make sure I had solids. The Rhino was out of sight now but I could see the shaking of the high grass.
‘How far would you call it?’
‘All of three hundred.’
‘I’ll bust the son of a bitch.’
I was watching, freezing myself deliberately inside, stopping the excitement as you close a valve, going into that impersonal state you shoot from.
He showed, trotting into the shallow, boulder-filled stream. Thinking of one thing, that the shot was perfectly possible, but that I must lead him enough, must get ahead, I got on him, then well ahead of him, and squeezed off. I heard the {whonk} of the bullet and, from his trot, he seemed to explode forward. With a whooshing snort he smashed ahead, splashing water and snorting. I shot again and raised a little column of water behind him, and shot again as he went into the grass; behind him again.
‘Piga,’ M’Cola said. ‘Piga!’
Droopy agreed.
‘Did you. hit him?’ Pop said.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got him.’
Droopy was running and I re-loaded and ran off after him. Half the camp was strung out across the hills waving and yelling. The rhino had come in right below where they were and gone on up the valley towards where the forest came close down into the head of the valley.
Pop and P.O.M. came up. Pop with his big gun and M’Cola carrying mine.
‘Droopy will get the tracks,’ Pop said. ‘M’Cola swears you hit him.’
‘Piga!’ M’Cola said.
‘He snorted like a steam engine,’ P.O.M. said. ‘Didn’t he look wonderful going along there?’
‘He was late getting home with the milk,’ Pop said. ‘Are you {sure} you hit him? It was a godawful long shot.’
‘I {know} I hit him. I’m {pretty} sure I’ve killed him.’
‘Don’t tell any one if you did,’ Pop said. ‘They’ll never believe you. Look! Droopy’s got blood.’
Below, in the high grass, Droop was holding up a grass blade towards us. Then, stooped, he went on trailing fast by the blood spoor.
‘Piga,’ M’Cola said. ‘M’uzuri!’
‘We’ll keep up above where we can see if he makes a break,’ Pop said. ‘Look at Droopy.’
Droop had removed his fez and held it in his hand.
‘That’s all the precautions he needs,’ Pop said. ‘We bring up a couple of heavy guns and Droopy goes in after him with one article less of clothing.’
Below us Droopy and his partner who was trailing with him had stopped. Droopy held up his hand.
‘They hear him,’ Pop said. ‘Come on.’
We started toward them. Droopy came toward us and spoke to Pop.
‘He’s in there,’ Pop whispered. ‘They can hear the tick birds. One of the boys says he heard the faro, too. We’ll go in against the wind. You go ahead with Droopy. Let the Memsahib stay behind me. Take the big gun. All right.’