‘It was awfully pretty,’ P.O.M. said. The bullet had made a crack when it hit like a bat swung against a fast ball and the buck had collapsed without a move.
‘I think he’s a damned liar,’ Pop said.
‘None of us great shots is appreciated. Wait till we’re gone.’
‘His idea of being appreciated is for us to carry him on our shoulders,’ Pop said. ‘That rhino shot has ruined him.’
‘All right. You watch from now on. Hell, I’ve shot well the whole time.’
‘I seem to remember a grant of some sort,’ Pop was teasing. So did I remember him. I’d followed a fine one out of the country missing shot after shot all morning after a series of stalks in the heat, then crawled up to an ant hill to shoot one that was not nearly as good, taken a rest on the ant hill, missed the buck at fifty yards, seen him stand facing me, absolutely still, his nose up, and shot him in the chest. He went over backwards and as I went up to him he jumped up and went off, staggering.
I sat down and waited for him to stop and when he did, obviously anchored, I sat there, using the sling, and shot for his neck, slowly and carefully, missing him eight times straight in a mounting, stubborn rage, not making a correction but shooting exactly for the same place in the same way each time, the gun bearers all laughing, the truck that had come up with the outfit holding more amused niggers, P.O.M. and Pop saying nothing, me sitting there cold, crazy-stubborn-furious, determined to break his neck rather than walk up and perhaps start him off over that heat-hazy, baking, noontime plain. Nobody said anything. I reached up my hand to M’Cola for more cartridges, shot again, carefully, and missed, and on the tenth shot broke his damned neck. I turned away without looking toward him.
‘Poor Papa,’ P.O.M. said.
‘It’s the light and the wind,’ Pop said. We had not known each other very well then. ‘They were all hitting the same place. I could see them throw the dust.’
‘I was a bloody, stubborn fool,’ I said.
Anyway, I could shoot now. So far, and aided by flukes, my luck was running now.
We came on into sight of camp and shouted. No one came out. Finally Karl came out of his tent. He went back as soon as he saw us, then came out again.
‘Hey, Karl,’ I yelled. He waved and went back in the tent again. Then came toward us. He was shaky with excitement and I saw he had been washing blood off his hands.
‘What is it?’
‘Rhino,’ he said.
‘Did you get in trouble with him?’
‘No. We killed him.’
‘Fine. Where is he?’
‘Over there behind that tree.’
We went over. There was the newly severed head of a rhino that was a rhino. He was twice the size of the one I had killed. The little eyes were shut and a fresh drop of blood stood in the corner of one like a tear. The head bulked enormous and the horn swept up and back in a fine curve. The hide was an inch thick where it hung in a cape behind the head and was as white where it was cut as freshly sliced coco-nut.
‘What is he? About thirty inches?’
‘Hell, no,’ said Pop. ‘Not thirty inches.’
‘But he iss a very fine one, Mr. Jackson,’ Dan said.
‘Yes. He’s a fine one,’ Pop said.
‘Where did you get him?’
‘Just outside of camp.’
‘He wass standing in some bush. We heard him grunt.’
‘We thought he was a buffalo,’ Karl said.
‘He iss a very fine one,’ Dan repeated.
‘I’m damned glad you got him,’ I said.
There we were, the three of us, wanting to congratulate, waiting to be good sports about this rhino whose smaller horn was longer than our big one, this huge, tear-eyed marvel of a rhino, this dead, head-severed dream rhino, and instead we all spoke like people who were about to become seasick on a boat, or people who had suffered some heavy financial loss. We were ashamed and could do nothing about it. I wanted to say something pleasant and hearty, instead, ‘How many times did you shoot him?’ I asked.