Then the Roman had his arms around my neck and M’Cola was shouting in a strange high sing-song voice and Wanderobo-Masai kept slapping me on the shoulder and jumping up and down and then one after the other they all shook hands in a strange way that I had never known in which they took your thumb in their fist and held it and shook it and pulled it and held it again, while they looked you in the eyes, fiercely.
We all looked at him and M’Cola knelt and traced the curve of his horns with his finger and measured the spread with his arms and kept crooning, ‘Oo-oo-eee-eee’, making small high noises of ecstasy and stroking the kudu’s muzzle and his mane.
I slapped the Roman on the back and we went through the thumb-pulling again, me pulling his thumb too. I embraced the Wanderobo-Masai and he, after a thumb-pulling of great intensity and feeling, slapped his chest and said very proudly, ‘Wanderobo-Masai wonderful guide’.
‘Wanderobo-Masai wonderful Masai,’ I said.
M’Cola kept shaking his head, looking at the kudu and making the strange small noises. Then he said, ‘Doumi, Doumi, Doumi! B’wana Kabor Kidogo, Kidogo’. Meaning this was a bull of bulls. That Karl’s had been a little one, a nothing.
We all knew we had killed the other kudu that I had mistaken for this one, while this first one was lying dead from the first shot, and it seemed of no importance beside the miracle of this kudu. But I wanted to see the other.
‘Come on, kudu,’ I said.
‘He’s dead,’ said M’Cola. ‘Kufa!’
‘Come on.’
‘This one best.’
‘Come on.’
‘Measure,’ M’Cola pleaded. I ran the steel tape around the curve of one horn, M’Cola holding it down. It was well over fifty inches. M’Cola looked at me anxiously.
‘Big! Big!’ I said. ‘Twice as big as B’wana Rabor.’
‘Eee-eee,’ he crooned.
‘Come on,’ I said. The Roman was off already.
We cut for where we saw the bull when I shot and there were the tracks with blood breast high on the leaves in the brush from the start. In a hundred yards we came on him absolutely dead. He was not quite as big as the first bull. The horns were as long, but narrower, but he was as beautiful, and he lay on his side, bending down the brush where he fell.
We all shook hands again, using the thumb which evidently denoted extreme emotion.
‘This askari,’ M’Cola explained. This bull was the policeman or bodyguard for the bigger one. He had evidently been in the timber when we had seen the first bull, had run with him, and had looked back to see why the big bull did not follow.
I wanted pictures and told M’Cola to go back to camp with the Roman and bring the two cameras, the Graflex and the cinema camera and my flashlight. I knew we were on the same side of the stream and above the camp and I hoped the Roman could make a short cut and get back before the sun set.
They went off and now, at the end of the day, the sun came out brightly below the clouds and the WanderoboMasai and I looked at this kudu, measured his horns, smelled the fine smell of him, sweeter than an eland even, stroked his nose, his neck, and his shoulder, marvelling at his great ears, and the smoothness and cleanness of his hide, looked at his hooves, that were built long, narrow, and springy, so he seemed to walk on tiptoe, felt under his shoulder for the bullet-hole and then shook hands again while the Wanderobo-Masai told what a man he was and I told him he was my pal and gave him my best four-bladed pocket knife.
‘Let’s go look at the first one, Wanderobo-Masai,’ I said in English.
The Wanderobo-Masai nodded, understanding perfectly, and we trailed back to where the big one lay in the edge of the little clearing. We circled him, looking at him and then the Wanderobo-Masai, reaching underneath while I held the shoulder up, found the bullet hole and put his finger in. Then he touched his forehead with the bloody finger and made the speech about ‘Wanderobo-Masai wonderful guide!’