Everyone understood why Mary must kill her lion. It was hard for some of the elders who had been on many hundreds of safaris to understand why she must kill it in the old straight way. But all of the bad element were sure it had something to do with her religion like the necessity to kill the gerenuk at approximately high noon. It evidently meant nothing to Miss Mary to kill the gerenuk in an ordinary and simple way.
At the end of the morning’s hunt, or patrol, the gerenuk would be in the thick bush. If we sighted any by unlucky chance Mary and Charo would get out of the car and make their stalk. The gerenuk would sneak, run or bound away. Ngui and I would follow the two stalkers from duty and our presence would ensure the gerenuk would keep on moving. Finally it would be too hot to keep on moving the gerenuk about and Charo and Mary would come back to the car. As far as I know no shot was ever fired in this type of gerenuk hunting.
“Damn those gerenuk,” Mary said. “I saw the buck looking directly at me. But all I could see was his face and his horns. Then he was behind another bush and I couldn’t tell he was not a doe. Then he kept moving off out of sight. I could have shot him but I might have wounded him.”
“You’ll get him another day. I thought you hunted him very well.”
“If you and your friend didn’t have to come.”
“We have to, honey.”
“I’m sick of it. Now I suppose you all want to go to the Shamba.”
“No. I think we’ll cut straight home to camp and have a cool drink.”
“I don’t know why I like this crazy part of the country,” she said. “I don’t have anything against the gerenuk either.”
“It’s sort of an island of desert here. It’s like the big desert we have to cross to get here. Any desert is fine.”
“I wish I could shoot well and fast and as quick as I see to shoot. I wish I wasn’t short. I couldn’t see the lion that time when you could see him and everybody else could see him.”
“He was in an awful place.”
“I know where he was and it wasn’t so far from here either.”
“No,” I said and to the driver, “Kwenda na campi.”
“Thank you for not going to the Shamba,” Mary said. “You’re good about the Shamba sometimes.”
“You’re who is good about it.”
“No, I’m not. I like you to go there and I like you to learn everything you should learn.”
“I’m not going there now until they send for me about something.”
“They’ll send for you all right,” she said. “Don’t worry about that.”
When we did not go to the Shamba the drive back to camp was very beautiful. There was one long open glade after another. They were linked together like lakes and the green trees and the brush made their shores. There were always the square white rumps of the Grant’s gazelle and their brown-and-white bodies as they trotted, the does moving fast and lightly and the bucks with their proud heavy horns swung back. Then we would round a long curve of green bushy trees and there would be the green tents of the camp with the yellow trees and the Mountain behind them.
This was the first day we had been alone in this camp and as I sat under the flap of the dining tent in the shade of a big tree and waited for Mary to come from washing up so we could have our drink together before lunch I hoped that there would be no problems and that it would be an easy day. Bad news came in quickly enough but I had seen no harbingers waiting around the cooking fires. The wood truck was still out. They would be bringing water too and when they came in they would probably bring news of the Shamba. I had washed and changed my shirt and changed into shorts and a pair of moccasins and felt cool and comfortable in the shade.
The rear of the tent was open and a breeze blew through off the Mountain that was cool with the freshness of the snow.
Mary came into the tent and said, “Why, you haven’t had a drink. I’ll make one for us both.”
She was fresh looking in her freshly ironed, faded safari slacks and shirt and beautiful and as she poured the Campari and gin into the tall glasses and looked for a cold siphon in the canvas water bucket she said, “I’m so glad we’re alone really. It will be just like Magadi but nicer.” She made the drinks and gave me mine and we touched glasses. “I love Mr. Percival so much and I love to have him. But with you and me alone it’s wonderful. I won’t be bad about you taking care of me and I won’t be irascible. I’ll do everything but like the Informer.”
“You’re awfully good,” I said. “We always do have the most fun alone together too. But you be patient with me when I’m stupid.”
“You’re not stupid and we’re going to have a lovely time. This is so much nicer a place than Magadi and we live here and have it all to our own. It is going to be lovely. You’ll see.”
There was a cough outside the tent. I recognized it and thought something that I had better not write down.
“All right,” I said. “Come in.” It was the Game Department Informer. He was a tall dignified man who wore full-length trousers, a clean dark blue sport shirt with thin white lateral strips, a shawl around his shoulders and a porkpie hat. All of these articles of clothing looked as though they had been gifts. The shawl I had recognized as being made from trade goods sold in one of the Hindu general stores at Laitokitok. His dark brown face was distinguished and must once have been handsome. He spoke accurate English slowly and with a mixture of accents.
“Sir,” he said, “I am happy to report that I have captured a murderer.”
“What kind of a murderer?”
“A Masai murderer. He is badly wounded and his father and uncle are with him.”
“Who did he murder?”
“His cousin. Don’t you remember? You dressed his wounds.”
“That man’s not dead. He’s in the hospital.”
“Then he is only an attempted murderer. But I captured him. You will mention it in your report, brother, I know. Please, sir, the attempted murderer is feeling very badly and he would like you to dress his wounds.”
“OK,” I said. “I’ll go out and see him. I’m sorry, honey.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mary said. “It doesn’t matter at all.”
“May I have a drink, brother?” the Informer asked. “I am tired from the struggle.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s all right,” Miss Mary said. “I don’t know any better word for it.”
“I did not mean an alcoholic drink,” the Informer said nobly. “I meant only a sip of water.”
“We’ll get some,” I said.
The attempted murderer, his father and his uncle all looked very depressed. I greeted them and we all shook hands. The attempted murderer was a young moran, or warrior, and he and another moran had been playing together making mock fighting with their spears. It had not been about anything, his father explained. They were only playing and he had wounded the other young man accidentally. His friend had thrust back at him and he had received a wound. Then they had lost their heads and fought but never seriously; never to kill. But when he saw his friend’s wounds he was frightened that he might have killed him and had gone off into the brush and hidden. Now he had come back with his father and his uncle and he wished to surrender. The father explained all this and the boy nodded his assent.
I told the father through the interpreter that the other boy was in the hospital and was doing well and that I had heard neither he nor his male relatives had made any charges against this boy. The father said he had heard the same thing.
The medical chest had been brought from the dining tent and I dressed the boy’s wounds. They were in the neck, the chest and the upper arm and back and were all suppurating badly. I cleaned them out, poured peroxide into them for the magic bubbling effect and to kill any grubs, cleaned them again, especially the neck wound, painted the edges with Mercurochrome, which gave a much admired and serious color effect, and then sifted them full of sulfa and put a gauze dressing and plaster across each wound.