‘Have one?’
‘I don’t see what harm it can do.’
We both drank and Pop said, ‘The hell with them’.
‘The hell with them.’
‘You may find some tracks.’
‘We’ll run them out of the country.’
In the car we turned to the right on the road, drove on up past the mud village and turned off the road to the left on to a red, hard, clay track that circled the edge of the hills and was close bordered on either side with trees. It was raining fairly hard now and we drove slowly. There seemed to be enough sand in the clay to keep the car from slipping. Suddenly, from the back seat, Abdullah, very excited, told Kamau to stop. We stopped with a skid, all got out, and walked back. There was a freshly cut kudu track in the wet clay. It could not have been made more than five minutes before as it was sharp-edged and the dirt, that had been picked up by the inside of the hoof, was not yet softened by the rain.
‘Doumi,’ Garrick said and threw back his head and spread his arms wide to show horns that hung back over his withers. ‘Kubwa Sana!’ Abdullah agreed it was a bull; a huge bull.
‘Come on,’ I said.
It was easy tracking and we knew we were close. In rain or snow it is much easier to come up close to animals and I was sure we were going to get a shot. We followed the tracks through thick brush and then out into an open patch. I stopped to wipe the rain off my glasses and blew through the aperture in the rear sight of the Springfield. It was raining hard now, and I pulled my hat low down over my eyes to keep my glasses dry. We skirted the edge of the open patch and then, ahead, there was a crash and I saw a grey, white-striped animal making off through the brush. I threw the gun up and M’Cola grabbed my arm, ‘Manamouki!’ he whispered. It was a cow kudu. But when we came up to where it had jumped there were no other tracks. The same tracks we had followed led, logically and with no possibility of doubt, from the road to that cow.
‘Doumi Kubwa Sana!’ I said, full of sarcasm and disgust to Garrick and made a gesture of giant horns flowing back from behind his ears.
‘Manamouki Kubwa Sana,’ he said very sorrowfully and patiently. ‘What an enormous cow.’
‘You lousy ostrich-plumed punk,’ I told him in English. ‘Manamouki! Manamouki! Manamouki!’
‘Manamouki,’ said M’Cola and nodded his head.
I got out the dictionary, couldn’t find the words, and made it clear to M’Cola with signs that we would circle back in a long swing to the road and see if we could find another track. We circled back in the rain, getting thoroughly soaked, saw nothing, found the car, and as the rain lessened and the roads still seemed firm decided to go on until it was dark. Puffs of cloud hung on the hillside after the rain and the trees dripped but we saw nothing. Not in the open glades, not in the fields where the bush thinned, not on the green hillsides. Finally it was dark and we went back to camp. .The Springfield was very wet when we got out of the car and I told M’Cola to clean it carefully and oil it well. He said he would and I went on and into the tent where a lantern was burning, took off my clothes, had a bath in the canvas tub and came out to the fire comfortable and relaxed in pyjamas, dressing-gown and mosquito boots.
P.O.M. and Pop were sitting in their chairs by the fire and P.O.M. got up to make me a whisky and soda.
‘M’Cola told me,’ Pop said from his chair by the fire.
‘A damned big cow,’ I told him. ‘I nearly busted her. What do you think about the morning?’
‘The lick I suppose. We’ve scouts out to watch both of these hills. You remember that old man from the village? He’s on a wild-goose chase after them in some country over beyond the hills. He and the Wanderobo. They’ve been gone three days.’