‘How do you say sable?’
‘Tarahalla.’
‘Valhalla, I can remember. Do the females have horns?’
‘Sure, but you can’t make a mistake. The bull is black and they’re brown. You can’t go wrong.’
‘Has M’Cola ever seen one?’
‘I don’t think so. You’ve got four on your licence. Any time you can better one, go ahead.’
‘Are they hard to kill?’
‘They’re tough. They’re not like a kudu. If you’ve got one down be careful how you walk up to him.’
‘What about time?’
‘We’ve got to get out. Make it back to-morrow night if you can. Use your own judgment. I think this is the turning point. You’ll get a kudu.’
‘Do you know what it’s like?’ I said. ‘It’s just like when we were kids and we heard about a river no one had ever fished out on the huckleberry plain beyond the Sturgeon and the Pigeon.’
‘How did the river turn out?’
‘Listen. We had a hell of a time to get in and the night we got there, just before dark, and saw it, there was a deep pool and a long straight stretch and the water so cold you couldn’t keep your hand in it and I threw a cigarette butt in and a big trout hit it and they kept snapping it up and spitting it out as it floated until it went to pieces.’
‘Big trout?’
‘The biggest kind.’
‘God save us,’ said Pop. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Rigged up my rod and made a cast and it was dark, and there was a nighthawk swooping around and it was cold as a bastard and then I was fast to three fish the second the flies hit the water.’
‘Did you land them?’
‘The three of them.’
‘You damned liar.’
‘I swear to God.’
‘I believe you. Tell me the rest when you come back. Were they big trout?’
‘The biggest bloody kind.’
‘God save us,’ said Pop. ‘You’re going to get a kudu. Get started.’
In the tent I found P.O.M. and told her.
‘Not really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘Don’t talk. Get started.’
I found raincoat, extra boots, socks, bathrobe, bottle of quinine tablets, citronella, note book, a pencil, my solids, the cameras, the emergency kit, knife, matches, extra shirt and undershirt, a book, two candles, money, the flask . . .
‘What else?’
‘Have you got soap? Take a comb and a towel. Got handkerchiefs?’
‘All right.’
Molo had everything packed in a rucksack and I found my field glasses, M’Cola taking Pop’s big field glasses, a canteen with water and Kati sending a chop-box with food. ‘Take plenty of beer,’ Pop said. ‘You can leave it in the car. We’re short on whisky but there’s a bottle.’
‘How will that leave you?’
‘All right. There’s more at the other camp. We sent two bottles on with Mr. K.’
‘I’ll only need the flask,’ I said. ‘We’ll split the bottle.’
‘Take plenty of beer then. There’s any amount of it.’
‘What’s the bastard doing?’ I said, pointing at Garrick who was getting into the car.
‘He says you and M’Cola wont be able to talk with the natives there. You’ll have to have some one to interpret.’
‘He’s poison.’
‘You {will} need someone to interpret whatever they speak into Swahili.’
‘All right. But tell him he’s not running the show and to keep his bloody mouth shut.’
‘We’ll go to the top of the hill with you,’ Pop said and we started off, the Wanderobo hanging to the side of the car. ‘Going to pick the old man up in the village.’
Everyone in camp was out to watch us go.
‘Have we plenty of salt?’
‘Yes.’
Now we were standing by the car on the road in the village waiting for the old man and Garrick to come back from their huts. It was early afternoon and the sky was clouding over and I was looking at P.O.M., very desirable, cool, and neat-looking in her khaki and her boots, her Stetson on one side of her head, and at Pop, big, thick, in the faded corduroy sleeveless jacket that was almost white now from washing and the sun.