The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (17 page)

***

Few landscape painters are gifted enough to capture an African sunset. The rustcolored iron dust from the African deserts transforms the setting sun into a vivid orange ball. The sky comes to life in blushes of lavender brushed over shaded streaks of pinks and reds. Rigby parked on a cliff overlooking the Zambezi Valley. In the stillness of dusk, they heard voices. The chatter came from the hunting camp that lay nestled in a grove of umbrella acacias. Jesse was spellbound, which was disconcerting for Rigby.

Rigby's partner met them as they climbed out of the truck. The cook handed out glasses of whiskey. Spooner wolfed his down in two swallows.

“You must be Spooner,” the man said, leaning on a cane with one hand and reaching out to shake hands with his other. “I'm what's left of Hansel Martin. I guess Rigby told you about my episode with the buffalo.”

“Every gory detail. You're lucky to be alive.”

Before Martin could respond, Rigby interrupted. “How are the clients?”

“They're resting before dinner. He's near seventy. His wife's half his age. Shot a respectable kudu two days ago. He's a typical American— lots of name-dropping and bragging about money. Sorry Spooner, I forgot you're a Yank.”

“Don't sweat it,” Jesse said. “I think I'll take a nap before dinner.”

Martin waited until Spooner disappeared into his tent. “He seems nice enough. Good-looking chap. What's your take on him?”

“He's only been here a few hours. I plan on doing some heavy walking. Our Mr. Spooner's coming with me. Ask me the same question tomorrow.”

“Rigby I'd be careful, he looks very fit.” “Nonsense. He's bulked up from weightlifting. I'll walk this guy until he drops. The big ones never last.”

***

Jesse slept soundly, but he woke up before sunrise. When he thought about Lynn Allison, a dull ache filled his belly. I wonder what we'll say to each other. Better keep the meeting prim and proper in front of old Croxford, he thought, looking at Rigby's tent.

The nights in Africa belong to the predators, but the mornings are reserved for song birds. The animals make a temporary truce to suckle their young. The animal screeches and screams of the darkness are replaced by the mournful cooing of wood doves. The loud bark of a baboon startled Jesse. He rolled over on his side and looked through the tent mesh. A spider had spun its web between the tent poles. The diamondshaped web glistened with earlymorning dew. He reached under the tent flap and plucked one of the web's silk threads. The architect scrambled to reclaim a cocooned tsetse fly.

Rigby emerged from his tent. He realigned his genitals with one hand, closed off a nostril with two fingers of the other and snorted a glob of phlegm into the dirt.

“You need to stop smoking. Come take a look at this spider and tell me if it's poisonous,” said Jesse.

“I don't have to look at it. It's like I told you before—everything on this continent's poisonous, including the advice. How'd you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” he lied.

“My friend, you're in for a fair amount of walking. Dress lightly. It's cold now, but it'll get hot in a couple of hours. I can't have you dying from heatstroke.”

“Yes,
Baba
,” Jesse answered.

“Say, does that spider have black and yellow stripes?”

“Wait just a minute. Yes it does.”

“It's a leaping button spider, probably a female. The females have the rather nasty habit of eating the males after they mate.”

“But are they poisonous?”

“The African button spider's responsible for more deaths in Africa than venomous snakes,” he responded.

Jesse's scream made Rigby laugh. He wished the spider story was true. Let the games begin, he thought.

***

Croxford had had similar problems with other hunting clients, but this one was especially troubling. The client, clearly in the waning years of life, went to bed early. His wife, who was having a lifeanddeath struggle with the aging process, continued drinking well into the night. Her hair was blonde, but after two weeks on safari, her roots told a different story. She troweled her makeup on like a bricklayer filling in cracks. Her enhanced breasts struggled against the confines of an open blouse. She was a woman who believed all men were hopelessly attracted to her. Her flirtations with Jesse started out innocently enough, but quickly became touchyfeely. Jesse was clearly uncomfortable, and when Rigby told him he needed to get a good night's sleep, he jumped at the chance to excuse himself. When Martin and Rigby excluded the woman by conversing in Afrikaans, she got the message and went to bed.

***

Late rains in Africa are a blessing for farmers, but a curse for hunters. The animals don't congregate at waterholes making them hard to find. Rigby's plan was to drive twenty miles and then walk back, hoping to stumble on fresh buffalo spoor. The group drove out as the sun peeked over the hills of Matetsi. Blue helmeted guinea fowl trotted along in single file just out of reach of their churning tires. The birds would flush and then land on the road as if they were engaged in a game of chicken. Croxford and Spooner rode in the back with the two Matabele trackers and the black game scout. Rigby glanced at Jesse. His bubbling enthusiasm for Africa was scratching at Rigby's nerves. Spooner, let's see if you're still so cheerful tonight.

The game scout was a Shona. His job was to enforce the game laws. The man rapped his knuckles on the truck's cab and jumped out before they could stop. His scowl scrunched up as he disappeared into the bushes with a roll of blue toilet paper stuck over the barrel of his Kalashnikov. This ritual was repeated four times before Rigby exploded. “Enough is enough! Martin, I need the first aid kit.”

When the man reemerged from the bushes, he looked clammy. Rigby emptied some pills in the man's hand and handed him a canteen. He bowed and seemed appreciative. With his rebellious bowels calmed, they made better progress. One of the trackers yelled to stop. Everyone got out of the truck and encircled the man, examining some animal tracks.

“How much time has passed since the buffalo made this spoor?” Rigby asked.

“The
nayati
passed water here six hours ago,” the tracker said. He smelled a handful of the sand infused with urine. “The old bull will seek out the shade of an acacia to chew his cud.”

Croxford, Spooner, the game scout, and the trackers started walking. Martin drove the client along a dirt path paralleling their route. If the trackers found fresh buffalo spoor, they could bring in the client.

“Spooner, stay close to the trackers.” He engaged a cartridge into the chamber and slung the rifle onto his shoulder. “Watch where you step. This area is loaded with black mambas.” Rigby's eyes twinkled. His mouth curled around a cigarette in a smile.

They walked for three hours. Spooner shaded his eyes and squinted up at the white sun. Sweat burned his eyes like whiskey. Fatigue made him clumsy. He stumbled on hidden rocks and got entangled in the hookthorn bushes.

At first, Rigby called out the names of animals and birds. “There's a lilac-breasted roller on that limb,” or “Look, that's a nice waterbuck.” Fatigue sapped his enthusiasm.

It was an undeclared war between them. Rigby had walked the hills of Metetsi for thirty years, but Jesse was younger. Africa was hot, but so was football practice in August. After five hours of hard walking, Croxford conceded. His voice sounded raspy. “Spooner, let's stop and give the trackers a chance to rest.”

“This is unbelievable. The game scout seems to be feeling better. What kind of pills did you give him? How many did he take?” Jesse asked.

“It was Imodium. He took the whole lot, actually.”

“The whole bottle?” You can't be serious.”

“I wouldn't worry about him. Africans are tough.”

“Would it be all right with you if I run up that hill? It looks like a great place to take a photograph.”

Rigby shook his head. “Spooner, if you're crazy enough to climb that hill—have at it. We'll wait for you.”

Jesse climbed the hill. When he was sure Rigby couldn't see him, he collapsed behind some rocks. He held his canteen up and poured water over his head. I'd rather die than let you win, he thought, peeking down at Croxford. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye; it was a large brown snake. The snake's tongue flickered. The inside of its mouth was velvety black. The mamba's eyes fastened on Jesse as he backed away. Jesse hurdled a boulder, lost his footing and then slid down the hill on his backside. At the bottom, he jumped to his feet like nothing happened. Rigby laughed. “See any snakes? Before Jesse could answer, one of the trackers reappeared. Rigby sent the other man to bring back the client.

He exhaled some smoke and then turned to Jesse. “The tracker found buffalo spoor. Are you carrying your peashooter?” Rather than answer, Jesse took the 9mm. out of his pocket and offered it to Croxford.

“Nice weapon. I reckon you need two bullets. If things go badly, you could shoot me and then shoot yourself. A slingshot would do more damage. It takes a big piece of lead to stop a buffalo. A wounded Cape buffalo is like a runaway freight train. These old solitary bulls can be irritable without those extra eyes and ears of a herd to warn them.” Jesse was too rattled to hear everything. You're wrong when you said I need two bullets, thought Jesse. I only need one.

“Martin says the client's an excellent shot, but he's over seventy.” Spooner, this is no time to be a hero. Run like hell, if I tell you to. Try to keep me between you and the buffalo. Got it?”

“And how fast can they run?”

“A buffalo can outrun the fastest football player in the world.”

“So I should only be concerned about outrunning you and the client.”

“I guess you could look at it that way. Spooner, a couple of hundred years ago, your ancestors hunted Cape buffalo with spears. God only knows, how many of them got killed. This is two thousand pounds of rage, not a Holstein.”

Before Jesse could say something clever, the client and a tracker walked out of the underbrush. The client was laboring heavily. His safari khakis were soaked in sweat. He handed Rigby his rifle. Rigby checked the safety and gave it back to him.

Their walking was purposeful. One tracker checked the wind direction by sprinkling bits of grass. One hour labored into two and the guns grew heavier on their shoulders. Jesse sensed that nothing would make Croxford happier than to see him chickenout. It'll never happen, he thought, laughing at himself. Rigby, I'm a bigger fool than you are. He stepped on a twig and cringed. His apologetic expression was not received well by Rigby. The head tracker's behavior changed. He placed his finger to his lips, pleading for them to move quietly.

The Cape buffalo stood motionless in the elephant grass watching his pursuers. The bull was two years past his last breeding. The younger bulls would not tolerate his presence and the cows, sensing his frailty, shunned him. His flanks shuddered from pesky insects. Red-billed ox-peckers feasted on the ticks attached to his back and neck. The bird's chirping warned him. For the moment, the buffalo's aggressive nature was conquered by its fear of humans. Shiny strings of drool hung from his wet muzzle. The bull's drooping horns were caked with dried mud. His shoveled ears were shredded from failed lion attacks. The bull grunted, and bolted. The report from the client's rifle boomed like thunder. “What the fuck? I didn't tell you to shoot,” Rigby screamed.

“I hit him,” the hunter yelled.

“Oh, you hit him all right. Bloody Portuguese heart shot. Right up the bung. Isn't this a lovely cockup? You there, check the spoor for blood,” Rigby yelled to one of his trackers.

The tracker showed Rigby a handful of bloodied semidigested grass. The buffalo was gutshot. “Take the client back to the truck,” he told the tracker. “Give me his weapon.” He cocked his hat to shade his face from the sun's glare and grinned at Jesse. “It's my job to put him out of his misery. There's no need for you to get involved in this. Why don't you follow them back to the truck?” Rigby said, nodding at the client.

“Oh, no you don't. I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

“Suit yourself. Just stay out of my way.”

It would take the client and the game warden an hour to reach the truck and another hour for Martin to walk back. Rigby looked at the setting sun. There wasn't time to wait for Martin. He handed Jesse the client's rifle. “Spooner, ever use one of these?”

“Not under these circumstances.” “When I told you these buffalo hunts were routine, I guess I misspoke. Don't look so worried, he may already be down.”

They followed the buffalo's blood spoor. The grass was so thick they had trouble seeing each other. When the tracker held up his hand, they froze. He was listening for tickbirds.