The rhino was in high grass, somewhere in there behind some bushes. As we went forward we heard a deep, moaning sort of groan. Droopy looked around at me and grinned. The noise came again, ending this time like a blood-choked sigh. Droopy was laughing. ‘Faro,’ he whispered and put his hand palm open on the side of his head in the gesture that means to go to sleep. Then in a jerky-flighted, sharp-beaked little flock we saw the tick birds rise and fly away. We knew where he was and, as we went slowly forward, parting the high grass, we saw him. He was on his side, dead.
‘Better shoot him once to make sure,’ Pop said. M’Cola handed me the Springfield he had been carrying. I noticed it was cocked, looked at M’Cola, furious with him, kneeled down and shot the rhino in the sticking place. He never moved. Droopy shook my hand and so did M’Cola.
‘He had that damned Springfield cocked,’ I said to Pop. The cocked gun, behind my back, made me black angry.
That meant nothing to M’Cola. He was very happy, stroking the rhino’s horn, measuring it with his fingers spread, looking for the bullet hole.
‘It’s on the side he’s lying on,’ I said.
‘You should have seen him when he was protecting Mama,’ Pop said. ‘That’s why he had the gun cocked.’
‘Can he shoot?’
‘No,’ Pop said. ‘But he would.’
‘Shoot me in the pants,’ I said. ‘Romantic bastard.’ When the whole outfit came up, we rolled the rhino into a sort of kneeling position and cut away the grass to take some pictures. The bullet hole was fairly high in the back, a little behind the lungs.
‘That was a hell of a shot,’ Pop said. ‘A hell of a shot. Don’t ever tell any one you made that one.’
‘You’ll have to give me a certificate.’
‘That would just make us both liars. They’re a strange beast, aren’t they?’
There he was, long-hulked, heavy-sided, prehistoric looking, the hide like vulcanized rubber and faintly transparent looking, scarred with a badly healed horn wound that the birds had pecked at, his tail thick, round, and pointed, flat many-legged ticks crawling on him, his ears fringed with hair, tiny pig eyes, moss growing on the base of his horn that grew out forward from his nose. M’Cola looked at him and shook his head. I agreed with him. This was the hell of an animal.
‘How is his horn?’
‘It isn’t bad,’ Pop said. ‘It’s nothing extra. That was a hell of a shot you made on him though, brother.’
‘M’Cola’s pleased with it,’ I said.
‘You’re pretty pleased with it yourself,’ P.O.M. said.
‘I’m crazy about it,’ I said. ‘But don’t let me start on it. Don’t worry about how I feel about it. I can wake up and think about that any night.’
‘And you’re a good tracker, and a hell of a fine bird shot, too,’ Pop said. ‘Tell us the rest of that.’
‘Lay off me. I only said that once when I was drunk.’
‘Once,’ said P.O.M. ‘Doesn’t he tell us that every night?’
‘By God, I {am} a good bird shot.’
‘Amazing,’ said Pop. ‘I never would have thought it. What else is it you do?’
‘Oh, go to hell.’
‘Mustn’t ever let him realize what a shot that was or he’ll get unbearable,’ Pop said to P.O.M.
‘M’Cola and I know,’ I said.
M’Cola came up. ‘M’uzuri, B’wana,’ he said. ‘M’uzuri sana.’
‘He thinks you did it on purpose,’ Pop said.
‘Don’t you ever tell him different.’
‘Piga m’uzuri,’ M’Cola said. ‘M’uzuri.’
‘I believe he feels just the way you do about it,’ Pop said.
‘He’s my pal.’
‘I believe he is, you know,’ Pop said.
On our way back across country to our main camp I made a fancy shot on a reedbuck at about two hundred yards, offhand, breaking his neck at the base of the skull. M’Cola was very pleased and Droopy was delighted.
‘We’ve got to put a stop to him,’ Pop said to P.O.M. ‘Where did you shoot for, really?’
‘In the neck,’ I lied. I had held full on the centre of the shoulder.