‘The bastard never cleaned it last night after that rain,’ I thought, and, very angry, I lifted the lug and slipped the bolt out. M’Cola was watching me with his head down. The other two were looking out through the blind. I held the rifle in one hand for him to look through the breech and then put the bolt back in and shoved it forward softly, lowering it with my finger on the trigger so that it was ready to cock rather than keeping it on the safety.
M’Cola had seen the rusty bore. His face had not changed and I had said nothing but I was full of contempt and there had been indictment, evidence, and condemnation without a word being spoken. So we sat there, he with his head bent so only the bald top showed, me leaning back and looking out through the slit, and we were no longer partners, no longer good friends, and nothing came to the salt.
At ten o’clock the breeze, which had come up in the east, began to shift around and we knew it was no use. Our scent was being scattered in all directions around the blind as sure to frighten any animals as though we were revolving a searchlight in the dark. We got up out of the blind and went over to look in the dust of the lick for tracks. The rain had moistened it but it was not soaked and we saw several kudu tracks, probably made early in the night and one big bull track, long, narrow, heart-shaped, clearly, deeply cut.
We took the track and followed it on the damp reddish earth for two hours in thick bush that was like second-growth timber at home. Finally we had to leave it in stuff we could not move through. All this time I was angry about the uncleaned rifle and yet happy and eager with anticipation that we might jump the bull and get a snap at him in the brush. But we did not see him and now, in the big heat of noon, we made three long circles around some hills and finally came out into a meadow full of little, humpy Masai cattle and, leaving all shade behind, trailed back across the open country under the noon sun to the car.
Kamau, sitting in the car, had seen a kudu bull pass a hundred yards away. He was headed toward the saltlick at about nine o’clock when the wind began to be tricky, had evidently caught our scent and gone back into the hills. Tired, sweating, and feeling more sunk than angry now, I got in beside Kamau and we headed the car toward camp. There was only one evening left now, and no reason to expect we would have any better luck than we were having. As we came to camp, and the shade of the heavy trees, cool as a pool, I took the bolt out of the Springfield and handed the rifle, boltless, to M’Cola without speaking or looking at him. The bolt I tossed inside the opening of our tent on to my cot.
Pop and P.O.M. were sitting under the dining tent.
‘No luck?’ Pop asked gently.
‘Not a damn bit. Bull went by the car headed toward the salt. Must have spooked off. We hunted all over hell.’
‘Didn’t you see anything?’ P.O.M. asked. ‘Once we thought we heard you shoot.’
‘That was Garrick shooting his mouth off. Did the scouts get anything?’
‘Not a thing. We’ve been watching both hills.’
‘Hear from Karl?’
‘Not a word.’
‘I’d like to have seen one,’ I said. I was tired out and slipping into bitterness fast. ‘God damn them. What the hell did he have to blow that lick to hell for the first morning and gut-shoot a lousy bull and chase him all over the son-of-a-bitching country spooking it to holy bloody hell?’
‘Bastards,’ said P.O.M., staying with me in. my unreasonableness. ‘Sonsabitches.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ I said. ‘I’m all right. Or I will be.’
‘It’s been. awful,’ she said. ‘Poor old Poppa.’
‘You have a drink,’ Pop said. ‘That’s what you need.’
‘I’ve hunted them hard, Pop. I swear to God I have. I’ve enjoyed it and I haven’t worried up until to-day. I was so damned sure. Those damned tracks all the time — what if I never see one? How do I know we can ever get back here again?’