“How far is he?” asked Macomber, raising his rifle.
“About seventy-five. Get out and take him.”
“Why not shoot from where I am?”
“You don’t shoot them from cars,” he heard Wilson saying in his ear. “Get out. He’s not going to stay there all day.”
Macomber stepped out of the curved opening at the side of the front seat, onto the step and down onto the ground. The lion still stood looking majestically and coolly toward this object that his eyes only showed in silhouette, bulking like some super-rhino. There was no man smell carried toward him and he watched the object, moving his great head a little from side to side. Then watching the object, not afraid, but hesitating before going down the bank to drink with such a thing opposite him, he saw a man figure detach itself from it and he turned his heavy head and swung away toward the cover of the trees as he heard a cracking crash and felt the slam of a .30- 06 220-grain solid bullet that bit his flank and ripped in sudden hot scalding nausea through his stomach. He trotted, heavy, bigfooted, swinging wounded full-bellied, through the trees toward the tall grass and cover, and the crash came again to go past him ripping the air apart. Then it crashed again and he felt the blow as it hit his lower ribs and ripped on through, blood sudden hot and frothy in his mouth, and he galloped toward the high grass where he could crouch and not be seen and make them bring the crashing thing close enough so he could make a rush and get the man that held it.
Macomber had not thought how the lion felt as he got out of the car. He only knew his hands were shaking and as he walked away from the car it was almost impossible for him to make his legs move. They were stiff in the thighs, but he could feel the muscles fluttering. He raised the rifle, sighted on the junction of the lion’s head and shoulders and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened though he pulled until he thought his finger would break. Then he knew he had the safety on and as he lowered the rifle to move the safety over he moved another frozen pace forward, and the lion seeing his silhouette flow clear of the silhouette of the car, turned and started off at a trot, and, as Macomber fired, he heard a whunk that meant that the bullet was home; but the lion kept on going. Macomber shot again and every one saw the bullet throw a spout of dirt beyond the trotting lion. He shot again, remembering to lower his aim, and they all heard the bullet hit, and the lion went into a gallop and was in the tall grass before he had the bolt pushed forward.
Macomber stood there feeling sick at his stomach, his hands that held the Springfield still cocked, shaking, and his wife and Robert Wilson were standing by him. Beside him too were the two gun-bearers chattering in Wakamba.
“I hit him,” Macomber said. “I hit him twice.”
“You gut-shot him and you hit him somewhere forward,” Wilson said without enthusiasm. The gun-bearers looked very grave. They were silent now.
“You may have killed him,” Wilson went on. “We’ll have to wait a while before we go in to find out”
“What do you mean?”
“Let him get sick before we follow him up.”
“Oh,” said Macomber.
“He’s a hell of a fine lion,” Wilson said cheerfully. “He’s gotten into a bad place though.”
“Why is it bad?”
“Can’t see him until you’re on him.”
“Oh,” said Macomber.
“Come on,” said Wilson. “The Memsahib can stay here in the car. We’ll go to have a look at the blood spoor.”
“Stay here, Margot,” Macomber said to his wife. His mouth was very dry and it was hard for him to talk.
“Why?” she asked.
“Wilson says to.”
“We’re going to have a look,” Wilson said. “You stay here. You can see even better from here.”
“All right.”
Wilson spoke in Swahili to the driver. He nodded and said, “Yes, Bwana.”
Then they went down the steep bank and across the stream, climbing over and around the boulders and up the other bank, pulling up by some projecting roots, and along it until they found where the lion had been trotting when Macomber first shot. There was dark blood on the short grass that the gun-bearers pointed out with grass stems, and that ran away behind the river bank trees.
“What do we do?” asked Macomber.
“Not much choice,” said Wilson. “We can’t bring the car over. Bank’s too steep. We’ll let him stiffen up a bit and then you and I’ll go in and have a look for him.”
“Can’t we set the grass on fire?” Macomber asked.
“Too green.”
“Can’t we send beaters?”
Wilson looked at him appraisingly. “Of course we can,” he said. “But it’s just a touch murderous. You see, we know the lion’s wounded. You can drive an unwounded lion—he’ll move on ahead of a noise—but a wounded lion’s going to charge. You can’t see him until you’re right on him. He’ll make himself perfectly flat in cover you wouldn’t think would hide a hare. You can’t very well send boys in there to that sort of a show. Somebody bound to get mauled.”
“What about the gun-bearers?”
“Oh, they’ll go with us. It’s their
“I don’t want to go in there,” said Macomber. It was out before he knew he’d said it.
“Neither do I,” said Wilson very cheerily. “Really no choice though.” Then, as an afterthought, he glanced at Macomber and saw suddenly how he was trembling and the pitiful look on his face.
“You don’t have to go in, of course,” he said. “That’s what I’m hired for, you know. That’s why I’m so expensive.”
“You mean you’d go in by yourself? Why not leave him there?”
Robert Wilson, whose entire occupation had been with the lion and the problem he presented, and who had not been thinking about Macomber except to note that he was rather windy, suddenly felt as though he had opened the wrong door in a hotel and seen something shameful.
“What do you mean?”
“Why not just leave him?”
“You mean pretend to ourselves he hasn’t been hit?”
“No. Just drop it.”
“It isn’t done.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, he’s certain to be suffering. For another, some one else might run onto him.”
“I see.”
“But you don’t have to have anything to do with it.”
“I’d like to,” Macomber said. “I’m just scared, you know.”
“I’ll go ahead when we go in,” Wilson said, “with Kongoni tracking. You keep behind me and a little to one side. Chances are we’ll hear him growl. If we see him we’ll both shoot. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll keep you backed up. As a matter of fact, you know, perhaps you’d better not go. It might be much better. Why don’t you go over and join the Memsahib while I just get it over with?”
“No, I want to go.”
“All right,” said Wilson. “But don’t go in if you don’t want to. This is my
“I want to go,” said Macomber.
They sat under a tree and smoked.
“Want to go back and speak to the Memsahib while we’re waiting?” Wilson asked.
“No.”
“I’ll just step back and tell her to be patient.”
“Good,” said Macomber. He sat there, sweating under his arms, his mouth dry, his stomach hollow feeling,
