Charo was a truly devout Mohammedan and was also known to be very truthful. He did not know how old he was, of course, but Pop thought he must be over seventy. With his turban on he was about two inches shorter than Miss Mary and watching them standing together looking across the gray flat at the waterbuck that were now going carefully, upwind, into the forest, the big buck with his beautiful horns looking back and to either side as he entered last in line, I thought what a strange pair Miss Mary and Charo must look to the animals. No animals had any visual fear of them. We had seen this proven many times. Rather than fearing them, the small blond one in the forest green coat, and the even smaller black one in the blue jacket, the animals appeared interested in them. It was as though they had been permitted to see a circus or at least something extremely odd and the predatory animals seemed to be definitely attracted by them. On this morning we were all relaxed. Something, or something awful or something wonderful was certain to happen on every day in this part of Africa. Every morning when you woke it was as exciting as though you were going to compete in a downhill ski race or drive a bobsled on a fast run. Something, you knew, would happen and usually before eleven o’clock. I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke that I was not happy. At least until I remembered unfinished business. But on this morning we were relaxed in the momentary irresponsibility of command and I was happy that the buffalo, which were our basic problem, were evidently someplace where we could not reach them. For what we hoped to do it was necessary for them to come to us rather than for us to go to them.
“What are you going to do?”
“Bring the car up and make a quick swing to check for tracks at the big water and then go into that place in the forest where it borders the swamp and check and then get out. We’ll be downwind of the elephant and you might see him. Probably not.”
“Can we go back through the gerenuk country?”
“Of course. I’m sorry we started late. But with Pop going away and everything.”
“I like to go in there in that bad place. I can study what we need for a Christmas tree. Do you think my lion is in there?”
“Probably. But we won’t see him in that kind of country.”
“He’s such a smart bastard lion. Why didn’t they let me shoot that easy beautiful lion under the tree that time. That’s the way women shoot lions.”
“They shoot them that way and the finest black-maned lion ever shot by a woman had maybe forty shots fired into him. Afterwards they have the beautiful pictures and then they have to live with the god-damn lion and lie about him to all their friends and themselves the rest of their lives.”
“I’m sorry I missed the wonderful lion at Magadi.”
“Don’t you be sorry. You be proud.”
“I don’t know what made me this way. I have to get him and he has to be the real one.”
“We overhunted him, honey. He’s too smart. I have to let him get confidence now and make a mistake.”
“He doesn’t make mistakes. He’s smarter than you and Pop both.”
“Honey, Pop wanted you to get him or lose him straight. If he didn’t love you you could have shot any sort of a lion.”
“Let’s not talk about him,” she said. “I want to think about the Christmas tree. We’re going to have a wonderful Christmas.”
Mthuka had seen Ngui start down the trail for him and brought up the car. We got in and I motioned Mthuka toward the far water at the corner across the swamp. Ngui and I both hung out over the side watching for tracks. There were the old wheel tracks and the game trails to and from the papyrus swamp. There were fresh wildebeest tracks and the tracks of the zebra and Tommy.
Now we were going closer to the forest as the road swung and then we saw the tracks of a man. Then of another man wearing boots. These tracks had been rained on lightly and we stopped the car to check on foot.
“You and me,” I said to Ngui.
“Yes,” he grinned. “One of them has big feet and walks as though he is tired.”
“One is barefooted and walks as though the rifle were too heavy for him. Stop the car,” I said to Mthuka. We got out.
“Look,” said Ngui. “One walks as though he were very old and can hardly see. The one with shoes.”
“Look,” I said. “The barefoot one walks as though he has five wives and twenty cows. He has spent a fortune on beer.”
“They will get nowhere,” Ngui said. “Look, the one with shoes walks as though he might die at any time. He staggers under the weight of the rifle.”
“What do you think they are doing here?”
“How would I know? Look, the one with shoes is stronger now.”
“He is thinking about the Shamba,” Ngui said.
“Kwenda na Shamba.”
“Ndio,” Ngui said. “How old would you say the old one with the shoes is?”
“None of your damn business,” I said. We motioned for the car and when it got up we got in and I motioned Mthuka toward the entrance to the forest. The driver was laughing and shaking his head.
“What were you two doing tracking yourselves?” Miss Mary said. “I know it’s funny because everybody was laughing. But it looked quite silly.”
“We were having fun.”
I was always depressed by this part of the forest. The elephants had to eat something and it was proper that they should eat trees rather than destroy the native farms. But the destruction was so great in proportion to the amount they ate from the trees they pulled down that it was depressing to see it. Elephants were the only animal that were increasing steadily throughout their present range in Africa. They increased until they became such a problem to the natives that they had to be slaughtered. Then they were killed off indiscriminately. There were men who did this and enjoyed it. They killed old bulls, young bulls, cows and calves and many liked their work. There had to be some sort of elephant control. But seeing this damage to the forest and the way the trees were pulled down and stripped and knowing what they could do in a native Shamba in a night, I started to think about the problems of control. But all the time I was watching for the tracks of the two elephants we had seen leading into this part of the forest. I knew those two elephants and where they would probably go for the day, but until I had seen their tracks and was sure they were past us I must be careful about Miss Mary wandering around looking for a suitable Christmas tree.
We stopped the car and I took the big gun and helped Miss Mary out of the car.
“I don’t need any help,” she said.
“Look, honey,” I started to explain. “I have to stay with you with the big gun.”
“I’m just going to pick out a Christmas tree.”
“I know. But there could be every kind of stuff in here. There has been too.”
“Let Ngui stay with me then and Charo’s here.”
“Honey, I’m responsible for you.”
“You can be an awful bore about it too.”
“I know it.” Then I said, “Ngui.”
“Bwana?”
The joking was all suspended.
“Go and see if the two elephants went into the far forest. Go as far as the rocks.”
“Ndio.”
He went off across the open space watching ahead for tracks in the grass and carrying my Springfield in his right hand.
“I only want to pick one out,” Miss Mary said. “Then we can come out some morning and dig it up and get it back to camp and plant it while it is still cool.”
“Go ahead,” I said. I was watching Ngui. He had stopped once and listened. Then he went on walking very carefully. I followed Miss Mary who was looking at the different silvery thorn shrubs trying to find one with the best size and shape but I kept looking back at Ngui over my shoulder. He stopped again and listened then waved toward the deep forest with his left arm. He looked around at me and I waved him back to us. He came in fast; as fast as he could walk without running.