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The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber by Ernest Hemingway

It was now lunch time and they were all sitting under the double green

fly of the dining tent pretending that nothing had happened.

“Will you have lime juice or lemon squash?” Macomber asked.

“I‟ll have a gimlet,” Robert Wilson told him.

“I‟ll have a gimlet too. I need something,” Macomber‟s wife said.

“I suppose it‟s the thing to do,” Macomber agreed. “Tell him to make

three gimlets.”

The mess boy had started them already, lifting the bottles out of the

canvas cooling bags that sweated wet in the wind that blew through the

trees that shaded the tents.

“What had I ought to give them?” Macomber asked.

“A quid would be plenty,” Wilson told him. “You don‟t want to spoil

them.”

“Will the headman distribute it?”

“Absolutely.”

Francis Macomber had, half an hour before, been carried to his tent

from the edge of the camp in triumph on the arms and shoulders of the

cook, the personal boys, the skinner and the porters. The gun-bearers

had taken no part in the demonstration. When the native boys put him

down at the door of his tent, he had shaken all their hands, received their

congratulations, and then gone into the tent and sat on the bed until his

wife came in. She did not speak to him when she came in and he left the

tent at once to wash his face and hands in the portable wash basin

outside and go over to the dining tent to sit in a comfortable canvas

chair in the breeze and the shade.

“You‟ve got your lion,” Robert Wilson said to him, “and a damned fine

one too.”

Mrs. Macomber looked at Wilson quickly. She was an extremely

handsome and well kept woman of the beauty and social position which

had, five years before, commanded five thousand dollars as the price of

endorsing, with photographs, a beauty product which she had never

used. She had been married to Francis Macomber for eleven years.

“He is a good lion, isn‟t he?” Macomber said. His wife looked at him

now. She looked at both these men as though she had never seen them

before.

One, Wilson, the white hunter, she knew she had never truly seen

before. He was about middle height with sandy hair, a stubby mustache,

a very red face and extremely cold blue eyes with faint white wrinkles at

the corners that grooved merrily when he smiled. He smiled at her now

and she looked away from his face at the way his shoulders sloped in the

loose tunic he wore with the four big cartridges held in loops where the

left breast pocket should have been, at his big brown hands, his old

slacks, his very dirty boots and back to his red face again. She noticed

where the baked red of his face stopped in a white line that marked the

circle left by his Stetson hat that hung now from one of the pegs of the

tent pole.

“Well, here‟s to the lion,” Robert Wilson said. He smiled at her again

and, not smiling, she looked curiously at her husband.

Francis Macomber was very tall, very well built if you did not mind that

length of bone, dark, his hair cropped like an oarsman, rather thin-

lipped, and was considered handsome. He was dressed in the same sort

of safari clothes that Wilson wore except that his were new, he was

thirty-five years old, kept himself very fit, was good at court games, had

a number of big-game fishing records, and had just shown himself, very

publicly, to be a coward.

“Here‟s to the lion,” he said. “I can‟t ever thank you for what you did.”

Margaret, his wife, looked away from him and back to Wilson.

“Let‟s not talk about the lion,” she said.

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Wilson looked over at her without smiling and now she smiled at him.

“It‟s been a very strange day,” she said. “Hadn‟t you ought to put your

hat on even under the canvas at noon? You told me that, you know.”

“Might put it on,” said Wilson.

“You know you have a very red face, Mr. Wilson,” she told him and

smiled again.

“Drink,” said Wilson.

“I don‟t think so,” she said. “Francis drinks a great deal, but his face is

never red.”

“It‟s red today,” Macomber tried a joke.

“No,” said Margaret. “It‟s mine that‟s red today. But Mr. Wilson‟s is

always red.

“Must be racial,” said Wilson. “I say, you wouldn‟t like to drop my

beauty as a topic, would you?”

“I‟ve just started on it.”

“Let‟s chuck it,” said Wilson.

“Conversation is going to be so difficult,” Margaret said.

“Don‟t be silly, Margot,” her husband said.

“No difficulty,” Wilson said. “Got a damn fine lion.”

Margot looked at them both and they both saw that she was going to cry.

Wilson had seen it coming for a long time and he dreaded it. Macomber

was past dreading it.

“I wish it hadn‟t happened. Oh, I wish it hadn‟t happened,” she said and

started for her tent. She made no noise of crying but they could see that

her shoulders were shaking under the rose-colored, sun-proofed shirt she

wore.

“Women upset,” said Wilson to the tall man. “Amounts to nothing.

Strain on the nerves and one thing‟n another.”

“No,” said Macomber. “I suppose that I rate that for the rest of my life

now.”

“Nonsense. Let‟s have a spot of the giant killer,” said Wilson. “Forget

the whole thing. Nothing to it anyway.”

“We might try,” said Macomber. “I won‟t forget what you did for me

though.”

“Nothing,” said Wilson. All nonsense.”

So they sat there in the shade where the camp was pitched under some

wide-topped acacia trees with a boulder-strewn cliff behind them, and a

stretch of grass that ran to the bank of a boulder-filled stream in front

with forest beyond it, and drank their just-cool lime drinks and avoided

one another‟s eyes while the boys all knew about it now and when he

saw Macomber‟s personal boy looking curiously at his master while he

was putting dishes on the table he snapped at him in Swahili. The boy

turned away with his face blank.

“What were you telling him?” Macomber asked.

“Nothing. Told him to look alive or I‟d see he got about fifteen of the

best.”

“What‟s that? Lashes?”

“It‟s quite illegal,” Wilson said. “You‟re supposed to fine them.”

“Do you still have them whipped?”

“Oh, yes. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. But they

don‟t. They prefer it to the fines.”

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“How strange!” said Macomber.

“Not strange, really,” Wilson said. “Which would you rather do? Take a

good birching or lose your pay?”

Then he felt embarrassed at asking it and before Macomber could

answer he went on, “We all take a beating every day, you know, one

way or another.”

This was no better. “Good God,” he thought. “I am a diplomat, aren‟t

I?”

“Yes, we take a beating,” said Macomber, still not looking at him. “I‟m

awfully sorry about that lion business. It doesn‟t have to go any further,

does it? I mean no one will hear about it, will they?”

“You mean will I tell it at the Mathaiga Club?” Wilson looked at him

now coldly. He had not expected this. So he‟s a bloody four-letter man

as well as a bloody coward, he thought. I rather liked him too until

today. But how is one to know abut an American?

“No,” said Wilson. “I‟m a professional hunter. We never talk about our

clients. You can be quite easy on that. It‟s supposed to be bad form to

ask us not to talk though.”

He had decided now that to break would be much easier. He would eat,

then, by himself and could read a book with his meals. They would eat

by themselves. He would see them through the safari on a very formal

basis—what was it the French called it? Distinguished consideration—

and it would be a damn sight easier than having to go through this

emotional trash. He‟d insult him and make a good clean break. Then he

could read a book with his meals and he‟d still be drinking their

whisky. That was the phrase for it when a safari went bad. You ran into

another while hunter and you asked, “How is everything going?” and he

answered, “Oh, I‟m still drinking their whisky,” and you knew

everything had gone to pot.

“I‟m sorry,” Macomber said and looked at him with his American face

that would stay adolescent until it became middle-aged, and Wilson

noted his crew-cropped hair, fine eyes only faintly shifty, good nose,

thin lips and handsome jaw. “I‟m sorry I didn‟t realize that. There are

lots of things I don‟t know.”

So what could he do, Wilson thought. He was all ready to break it off

quickly and neatly and here the beggar was apologizing after he had just

insulted him. He made one more attempt. “Don‟t worry about me

talking,” he said. “I have a living to make. You know in Africa no

woman ever misses her lion and no white man ever bolts.

“I bolted like a rabbit,” Macomber said.

Now what in hell were you going to do about a man who talked like

that, Wilson wondered.

Wilson looked at Macomber with his flat, blue, machinegunner‟s eyes

and the other smiled back at him. He had a pleasant smile if you did not

notice how his eyes showed when he was hurt.

“Maybe I can fix it up on buffalo,” he said. “We‟re after them next,

aren‟t we?

“In the morning if you like,” Wilson told him. Perhaps he had been

wrong. This was certainly the way to take it. You most certainly could

not tell a damned thing about an American. He was all for Macomber

again. If you could forget the morning. But, of course, you couldn‟t. The

morning had been about as bad as they come.

“Here comes the Memsahib,” he said. She was walking over from her

tent looking refreshed and cheerful and quite lovely. She had a very

perfect oval face, so perfect that you expected her to be stupid. But she

wasn‟t stupid, Wilson thought, no, not stupid.

“How is the beautiful red-faced Mr. Wilson? Are you feeling better,

Francis, my pearl?”

“Oh, much,” said Macomber.

“I‟ve dropped the whole thing,” she said, sitting down at the table.

“What importance is there to whether Francis is any good at killing

lions? That‟s not his trade. That‟s Mr. Wilson‟s trade. Mr. Wilson is

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really very impressive killing anything. You do kill anything, don‟t

you?”

“Oh, anything,” said Wilson. “Simply anything.” They are, he thought,

the hardest in the world; the hardest, the cruelest, the most predatory and

the most attractive and their men have softened or gone to pieces

nervously as they have hardened. Or is it that they pick men they can

handle? They can‟t know that much at the age they marry, he thought.

He was grateful that he had gone through his education on American

women before now because this was a very attractive one.

“We‟re going after buff in the morning,” he told her.

“I‟m coming,” she said.

“No, you‟re not.”

“Oh, yes, I am. Mayn‟t I, Francis?”

“Why not stay in camp”

“Not for anything,” she said. “I wouldn‟t miss something like today for

anything.

When she left, Wilson was thinking, when she went off to cry, she

seemed a hell of a fine woman. She seemed to understand, to realize, to

be hurt for him and for herself and to know how things really stood. She

is away for twenty minutes and now she is back, simply enameled in

that American female cruelty. They are the damnedest women. Really

the damnedest.

“We‟ll put on another show for you tomorrow,” Francis Macomber said.

“You‟re not coming,” Wilson said.

“You‟re very mistaken,” she told him. “And I want so to see you

perform again. You were lovely this morning. That is if blowing things‟

heads of is lovely.”

“Here‟s the lunch,” said Wilson. “You‟re very merry, aren‟t you?”

“Why not? I didn‟t come out here to be dull.”

“Well, it hasn‟t been dull,” Wilson said. He could see the boulders in the

river and the high bank beyond with the trees and he remembered the

morning.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It‟s been charming. And tomorrow. You don‟t

know how I look forward to tomorrow.”

“That‟s eland he‟s offering you,” Wilson said.

“They‟re the big cowy things that jump like hares, aren‟t they?”

“I suppose that describes them,” Wilson said.

“It‟s very good meat,” Macomber said.

“Yes.”

They‟re not dangerous, are they?”

“Only if they fall on you,” Wilson told her.

“I‟m so glad.”

“Why not let up on the bitchery just a little, Margot,” Macomber said,

cutting the eland steak and putting some mashed potato, gravy and

carrot on the down=-turned fork that tined through the piece of meat.

“I suppose I could,” she said, “since you put it so prettily.”

“Tonight we‟ll have champagne for the lion,” Wilson said. “It‟s a bit too

hot at noon.”

“Oh, the lion,” Margot said. “I‟d forgotten the lion!”

So, Robert Wilson thought to himself, she is giving him a ride, isn‟t

she? Or do you suppose that‟s her idea of putting up a good show? How

should a woman act when she discovers her husband is a bloody

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coward? She‟s damn cruel but they‟re all cruel. They govern, of course,

and to govern one has to be cruel sometimes. Still, I‟ve seen enough of

their damn terrorism.

“Have some more eland,” he said to her politely.

That afternoon, late, Wilson and Macomber went out in the motor car

with the native driver and the two gun-bearers. Mrs. Macomber stayed

in the camp. It was too hot to go out, she said, and she was going with

them in the early morning. As they drove off Wilson saw her standing

under the big tree, looking pretty rather than beautiful in her faintly rosy

khaki, her dark hair drawn back off her forehead and gathered in a knot

low on her neck, her face as fresh, he thought, as though she were in

England. She waved to them as the car went off through the swale of

high grass and curved around through the trees into the small hills of

orchard bush.

In the orchard bush they found a herd of impala, and leaving the car they

stalked one old ram with long, wide-spread horns and Macomber killed

it with a very creditable shot that knocked the buck down at a good two

hundred yards and sent the herd off bounding wildly and leaping over

one another‟s backs in long, leg-drawn-up leaps as unbelievable and as

floating as those one makes sometimes in dreams.

“That was a good shot,” Wilson said. “They‟re a small target.”

“Is it a worth-while head?” Macomber asked.

“It‟s excellent,” Wilson told him. “You shoot like that and you‟ll have

no trouble.”

“Do you think we‟ll find buffalo tomorrow?”

“There‟s good chance of it. They feed out early in the morning and with

luck we may catch them in the open.”

I‟d like to clear away that lion business,” Macomber said.

“It‟s not very pleasant to have your wife see you do something like

that.”

I should think it would be even more unpleasant to do it, Wilson

thought, wife or no wife, or the talk about it having done it. But he said,

“I wouldn‟t think about that any more. Any one could be upset by his

first lion. That‟s all over.”

But that night after dinner and a whisky and soda by the fire before

going to bed, as Francis Macomber lay on his cot with the mosquito bar

over him and listened to the night noises it was not all over. It was

neither all over nor was it beginning. It was there exactly as it happened

with some parts of it indelibly emphasized and he was miserably

ashamed at it. But more than shame he felt cold, hollow fear in him. The

fear was still there like a cold slimy hollow in all the emptiness where

once his confidence had been and it made him feel sick. It was still there

with him now.

It had started the night before when he had wakened and heard the lion

roaring somewhere up along the river. It was a deep sound and at the

and there were sort of coughing grunts that made him seem just outside

the tent, and when Francis Macomber woke in the night to hear it he was

afraid. He could hear his wife breathing quietly, asleep. There was no

one to tell he was afraid, nor to be afraid with him, and, lying alone, he

did not know the Somali proverb that says a brave man is always

frightened three times by a lion; when he first sees his track, when he

first hears him roar and when he first confronts him. Then while they

were eating breakfast by lantern light out in the dining tent, before the

sun was up, the lion roared again and Francis thought he was just at the

edge of camp.

“Sounds like an old-timer,” Robert Wilson said, looking up from his

kippers and coffee. “Listen to him cough.”

“Is he very close?”

“A mile or so up the stream.”

“Will we see him?”

“We‟ll have a look.”

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“Does his roaring carry that far? It sounds as though he were right in

camp.”

“Carries a hell of a long way,” said Robert Wilson. “It‟s strange the way

it carries. Hope he‟s a shootable cat. The boys said there was a very big

one about here.”

“If I get a shot, where should I hit him,” Macomber asked. “to stop

him?”

“In the shoulders,” Wilson said. “In the neck if you can make it. Shoot

for bone. Break him down.”

“I hope I can place it properly,” Macomber said.

“You shoot very well, “Wilson told him. “Take your time. Make sure of

him. The first one in is the one that counts.”

“What range will it be?”

“Can‟t tell. Lion has something to say about that. Won‟t shoot unless

it‟s close enough so you can make sure.”

“At under a hundred yards?” Macomber asked.

Wilson looked at him quickly.

“Hundred‟s about right. Might have to take him a bit under. Shouldn‟t

chance a shot at much over that. A hundred‟s a decent range. You can

hit him wherever you want at that. Here comes the Memsahib.”

“Good morning,” she said. “Are we going after that lion?”

“As soon as you deal with your breakfast,” Wilson said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Marvelous,” she said. “I‟m very excited.”

“I‟ll just go and see that everything is ready,” Wilson went off. As he

left the lion roared again.

“Noisy beggar,” Wilson said. “We‟ll put a stop to that.”

“What‟s the matter, Francis?” his wife asked him.

“Nothing,” Macomber said.

“Yes, there is,” she said. “What are you upset about?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Tell me,” she looked at him. “Don‟t you feel well?”

“It‟s that damned roaring,” she said. “It‟s been going on all night, you

know.”

“Why didn‟t you wake me, she said. I‟d love to heard it.

“I‟ve got to kill the damned thing,” Macomber said, miserably.

“Well, that‟s what you‟re out here for, isn‟t it?”

“Yes. But I‟m nervous. Hearing the thing roar gets on my nerves.”

“Well then, as Wilson said, kill him and stop his roaring.”

“Yes, darling,” said Francis Macomber. “It sounds easy, doesn‟t it?”

“You‟re not afraid, are you?”

“Of course not. But I‟m nervous from hearing him roar all night.”

“You‟ll kill him marvelously,” she said. “I know you will. I‟m awfully

anxious to see it.”

“Finish your breakfast and we‟ll be starting.”

It‟s not light yet,” she said. “This is a ridiculous hour.”

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Just then as the lion roared in a deep-chested, moaning, suddenly

guttural, ascending vibration that seemed to shake the air and ended in a

sigh and a heavy, deep-chested grunt.

“He sounds almost here,” Macomber‟s wife said.

“My God,” said Macomber. “I hate that damned noise.”

“It‟s very impressive.”

“Impressive. It‟s frightful.”

Robert Wilson came up then carrying his short, ugly, shockingly big-

bored .505 Gibbs and grinning.

“Come on,” he said. “Your gun-bearer has your Springfield and the big

gun. Everything‟s in the car. Have you solids?”

“Yes.”

“I‟m ready,” Mrs. Macomber said.

“Must make him stop that racket,” Wilson said. “You got in front. The

Memsahib can sit back here with me.”

They climbed into the motor car and, in the gray first day-light, moved

off up the river through the trees. Macomber opened the breech of his

rifle and saw he had metal-cased bullets, shut the bolt and put the rifle

on safety. He saw his hand was trembling. He felt in his pocket for more

cartridges and moved his fingers over the cartridges in the loops of his

tunic front. He turned back to where Wilson sat in the rear seat of the

doorless, box-bodied motor car beside his wife, them both

grinning with excitement, and Wilson leaned forward and whispered,

“See the birds dropping. Means the old boy has left his kill.”

On the far bank of the stream Macomber could see, above the trees,

vultures circling and plummeting down.

“Chances are he‟ll come to drink along here,” Wilson whispered. Before

he goes to lay up. Keep an eye out.”

They were driving slowly along the high bank of the stream which here

cut deeply to its boulder-filled bed, and they wound in and out through

big trees as they drove. Macomber was watching the opposite bank

when he felt Wilson take hold of his arm. The car stopped.

“There he is,” he heard the whisper. “Ahead and to the right. Get out

and take him. He‟s marvelous lion.”

Macomber saw the lion now. He was standing almost broadside, his

great head up and turned toward them. The early morning breeze that

blew toward them was just stirring his dark mane, and the lion looked

huge, silhouetted on the rise of bank in the gray morning light, his

shoulders heavy, his barrel of a body bulking smoothly.

“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 car.

“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 superrhino. There was no man

smell carried toward his 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 for 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, big-footed, swinging wounded lull-bellied,

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

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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 now clear of the silhouette of the car,

turned an 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 her. 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.

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“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 shauri. You see, they signed on for it.

They don‟t look too happy though, do they?”

“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 ands 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 on to 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 shauri now, you know.”

“I want to go,” said Macomber.

They sat under a tree and smoked.

“What 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

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mouth dry, his stomach hollow feeling, wanting to find courage to tell

Wilson to go on and finish off the lion without him. He could not know

that Wilson was furious because he had not noticed the state he was in

earlier and sent him back to his wife. While he sat there Wilson came

up. “I have your big gun,” he said. “Take it. We‟ve given him time, I

think. Come on.”

Macomber took the big gun and Wilson said”

“Keep behind me and about five yards to the right and do exactly as I

tell you.” Then he spoke in Swahili to the two gun-bearers who looked

the picture of gloom.

“Let‟s go,” he said.

“Could I have a drink of water?” Macomber asked. Wilson spoke to the

older gun-bearer, who wore a canteen on his belt, and the man

unbuckled it, unscrewed the top and handed it to Macomber, who took it

noticing how heavy it seemed and how hairy and shoddy the felt

covering was in his hand. He raised it to drink and looked ahead at the

high grass with the flat-topped trees behind it. A breeze was blowing

toward them and the grass rippled gently in the wind. He looked at the

gun-bearer and he could see the gun-bearer was suffering too with fear.

Thirty-five yards into the grass the big lion lay flattened out along the

ground. His ears where back and his only movement was a slight

twitching up and down of his long, black-tufted tail. He had turned at

bay as soon as he had reached this cover and he was sick with the

wound through his full belly, and weakening with the wound through

his lungs that brought a thin foamy red to his mouth each time he

breathed. His flanks were wet and hot and flies were on the little

openings the solid bullets had made in his tawny hide, and his big

yellow eyes, narrowed with hate, looked straight ahead, only blinking

when the pain came as he breathed, and his claws dug in the soft baked

earth. All of him, pain, sickness, hatred and all of his remaining

strength, was tightening into an absolute concentration for a rush. He

could hear the men talking and he waited, gathering all of himself into

this preparation for a charge as soon as the men would come into the

grass. As he heard their voices his tail stiffened to twitch up and down,

and, as they came into the edge of the grass, he made a coughing grunt

and charged.

Kongoni, the old gun-bearer, in the lead watching the blood spoor,

Wilson watching the grass for any movement, his big gun ready, the

second gun-bearer looking ahead and listening, Macomber close to

Wilson, his rifle cocked, they had just moved into the grass when

Macomber hear the blood-choked coughing grunt, and saw the swishing

rush in the grass. The next thing he knew he was running; running

wildly, in panic in the open, running toward the stream.

He heard the ca-ra-wong! of Wilson‟s big rifle, and again in a second

crashing carawong! and turning saw the lion, horrible-looking now, with

half his head seeming to be gone, crawling toward Wilson in the edge of

the tall grass while the red-faced man worked the belt on the short ugly

rifle and aimed carefully as another blasting carawong! came from the

muzzle, and the crawling, heavy, yellow bulk of the lion stiffened and

the huge, mutilated head slid forward and Macomber, standing by

himself in the clearing where he had run, holding a loaded rifle, while

two black men and a white man looked back at him in contempt, knew

the lion was dead. He came toward Wilson, his tallness all seeming a

naked reproach, and Wilson looked at him and said:

“What to take pictures?”

“No,” he said.

That was all any one had said until they reached the motor car. Then

Wilson had said:

“Hell of a fine lion. Boys will skin him out. We might as well stay here

in the shade.”

Macomber‟s wife had not looked at him nor he at her and he had sat by

her in the back seat with Wilson sitting in the front seat. Once he had

reached over and taken his wife‟s hand without looking at her and she

had removed her hand from his. Looking across the stream to where the

gun-bearers were skinning out the lion he could see that she had been

able to see the whole thing. While they sat there his wife had reached

forward and put her hand on Wilson‟s shoulder. He turned and she had

leaned forward over the low seat and kissed him on the mouth.

11

“Oh, I say,” said Wilson, going redder than his natural baked color.

“Mr. Robert Wilson,” she said. “The beautiful red-faced Mr. Robert

Wilson.”

Then she sat down beside Macomber again and looked away across the

stream to where the lion lay, with uplifted, white-muscled, tendon-

marked naked forearms, and white bloating belly, as the black men

fleshed away the skin. Finally the gun-bearer brought the skin over, wet

and heavy, and climbed in behind with it, rolling it up before they got in,

and the motor car started. No one had said anything more until they

were back in camp.

That was the story of the lion. Macomber did not know how the lion had

felt before he started his rush, nor during it when the unbelievable smash

of the .505 with a muzzle velocity of two tons had hit him in the mouth,

nor what kept him coming after that, when the second ripping crash had

smashed his hind quarters and he had come crawling on toward the

crashing, blasting thing that had destroyed him. Wilson knew something

about it and only expressed it by saying, “Damned fine lion,” but

Macomber did not know how Wilson felt abut things either. He did not

know how his wife felt except that she was through with him.

His wife had been through with him before but it never lasted. He was

very wealthy, and would be much wealthier, and he knew she would not

leave him ever now. That was one of the few things that he really knew.

He knew about that, about motorcycles—that was earliest—about

motor cars, about duck-shooting, about fishing, trout, salmon and big-

sea, about sex in books, many books, too many books, about all court

games, about dogs, not much about horses, about hanging on to his

money, abut most of the other things his world dealt in, and about his

wife not leaving him. His wife had been a great beauty and she was still

a great beauty in Africa, but she was not a great enough beauty any

more at home to be able to leave him and better herself and she knew it

and he knew it. She had missed the chance to leave him and he knew it.

If he had been better with women she would probably have started to

worry about him getting another new, beautiful wife; but she knew too

much about him to worry about him either. Also he had always had a

great tolerance which seemed the nicest thing about him if it were not

the most sinister.

All in all they were known as a comparatively happily married couple,

one of those whose disruption is often rumored but never occurs, and as

the society columnist put it, they were adding more than a spice of

adventure to their much envied and ever enduring romance by a Safari

in what was known as Darkest Africa until the Martin Johnsons lighted

it on so many silver screens where they were pursuing Old Simba the

lion, the buffalo, Tembo the elephant and as well collecting specimens

for the Museum of Natural History. This same columnist had reported

them on the verge as least three times in the past and they had been. But

they always made it up. They had a sound basis of union. Margot was

too beautiful for Macomber to divorce her and Macomber had too much

money for Margot ever to leave him.

It was now about three o‟clock in the morning and Francis macomber,

who had been asleep a little while after he had stopped thinking about

the lion, wakened and then slept again, woke suddenly, frightened in a

dream of the bloody-headed lion standing over him, and listening while

his heart pounded, he realized that his wife was not in the other cot in

the tent. He lay awake with the knowledge of two hours.

At the end of that time his wife came into the tent, lifted her mosquito

bar and crawled cozily into bed.

“Where have you been?” Macomber asked in the darkness.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you awake?”

“Where have you been?”

“I just went out to get a breath of air.”

“You did, like hell.”

“What do you want me to say, darling?”

“Where have you been?”

“Out to get a breath of air.”

12

“That‟s a new name for it. You are a bitch.”

“Well, you‟re coward.”

“All right,” he said. “What of it?”

“Nothing as far as I‟m concerned. But please let‟s not talk, darling,

because I‟m very sleepy.”

“You think that I‟ll take anything.”

“I know you will, sweet.”

“Well, I won‟t.”

“Please, darling, let‟s not talk. I‟m so very sleepy.”

“There wasn‟t going to be any of that. You promised there wouldn‟t

be.”

“Well, there is now,” she said sweetly.

“You said if we made this trip that there would be none of that. You

promised.”

“Yes, darling. That‟s the way I meant it to be. But the trip was spoiled

yesterday. We don‟t have to talk about it, do we?”

“You don‟t wait long when you have an advantage, do you?”

“Please let‟s not talk. I”m so sleepy, darling.”

“I‟m going to talk.”

“Don‟t mind me then, because I‟m going to sleep.” And she did.

At breakfast they were all three at the table before daylight and Francis

Macomber found that, of all the many men that he had hated, he hated

Robert Wilson the most.

“Sleep well?” Wilson asked in his throaty voice, filling a pipe.

“Did you?”

“Topping,” the white hunter told him.

You bastard, thought Macomber, you insolent bastard.

So she woke him when she came in, Wilson thought, looking at them

both with his flat, cold eyes. Well, why doesn‟t he keep his wife where

she belongs?” What does he think I am, a bloody plaster saint? Let him

keep her where she belongs. It‟s his own fault.

“Do you think we‟ll find buffalo?” Margot asked, pushing away a dish

of apricots.”

“Chance of it,” Wilson said and smiled at her. “Why don‟t you stay in

camp?”

“Not for anything,” she told him.

“Why not order her to stay in camp?” Wilson said to Macomber.

“Your order her,” said Macomber coldly.

“Let‟s not have any ordering, nor,” turning to Macomber, “any silliness,

Francis,” Margot said quite pleasantly.

“Are you ready to start?” Macomber asked.

“Any time,” Wilson told him. “Do you want the Memsahib to go?”

“Does it make any difference whether I do or not?”

The hell with it, thought Robert Wilson. The utter complete hell with it.

So this is what it‟s going to be like. Well, this is what it‟s going to be

like, then.

“Makes no difference,” he said.

13

“You‟re sure you wouldn‟t like to stay in camp with her yourself and let

me go out and hunt the buffalo? Macomber asked.

“Can‟t do that,” said Wilson. “Wouldn‟t talk rot if I were you.”

“I‟m not talking rot. I‟m disgusted.”

“Bad word, disgusted.”

“Francis, will you please try to speak sensibly!” his wife said.

“I speak too damned sensibly,” Macomber said. “Did you ever eat such

filthy food?”

“Something wrong with the food?” asked Wilson quietly.

“No more than with everything else.”

“I‟d pull yourself together, laddybuck,” Wilson said very quietly.

“There‟s a boy waits at table that understands a little English.”

“The hell with him.”

Wilson stood up and puffing on his pipe strolled away, speaking a few

words in Swahili to one of the gun-bearers who was standing waiting for

him. Macomber and his wife sat on at the table. He was staring at his

coffee cup.

“If you make a scene I‟ll leave you, darling,” Margot said quietly.

“No, you won‟t.”

“You can try it and see.”

“You won‟t leave me.”

“No,” she said. “I won‟t leave you and you‟ll behave yourself.”

“Behave myself? That‟s a way to talk. Behave myself.”

“Yes. Behave yourself.”

“Why don‟t you try behaving?”

“I‟ve tried it so long. So very long.”

“I hate that red-faced swine,” Macomber said. “I loathe the sight of

him.”

“He‟s really very nice.”

“Oh, shut up,” Macomber almost shouted. Just then the car came up and

stopped in front of the dining tent and the driver and the two gun-bearers

got out. Wilson walked over and looked at the husband and wife sitting

there at the table.

“Going, shooting?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Macomber, standing up. “Yes.”

“Better bring a woolly. It will be cool in the car,” Wilson said.

“I‟ll get my leather jacket,” Margot said.

“The boy has it,” Wilson told her. He climbed into the front with the

driver and Francis Macomber and his wife sat, not speaking, in the back

seat.

Hope the silly beggar doesn‟t take a notion to blow the back of my head

off, Wilson thought to himself. Women are a nuisance on safari.

The car was grinding down to cross the river at a pebbly ford in the gray

daylight and then climbed, angling up the steep bank, where Wilson had

ordered a way shoveled out the day before so they could reach the

parklike wooded rolling country on the far side.

It was a good morning, Wilson thought. There was a heavy dew and as

the wheels went through the grass and low bushes he could smell the

odor of the crushed fronds. It was an odor like verbena and he liked this

14

early morning smell of the dew, the crushed bracken and the look of the

tree trunks showing black through the early morning mist, as the car

made its way through the untracked, parklike country. He had put the

two in the back seat out of his mind now and was thinking about

buffalo. The buffalo that he was after stayed in the daytime in a thick

swamp where it was impossible to get a shot, but in the night they fed

out into an open stretch of country and if he could come between them

and their swamp with the car, Macomber would have a good chance at

them in the open. He did not want to hunt buff or anything else with

Macomber at all, but he was a professional hunter and he had hunted

with some rare ones in his time. If they got buff today there would only

be rhino to come and the poor man would have gone through his

dangerous game and things might pick up. He‟d have nothing more to

do with the woman and Macomber would get over that too. He must

have gone through plenty of that before by the look of things. Poor

beggar. He must have a way of getting over it. Well, it was the poor

sod‟s own bloody fault.

He, Robert Wilson, carried a double size cot on safari to accommodate

any windfalls he might receive. He had hunted for a certain clientele, the

international, fast, sporting set, where the women did not feel they were

getting their money‟s worth unless they had shared that cot with the

white hunter. He despised them when he was away from them although

he liked some of them well enough at the time, but he made his living

by them; and their standards were his standards as long as they were

hiring him.

They were his standards in all except the shooting. He had his own

standards about the killing and they could live up to them or get some

one else to hunt them. He knew, too, that they all respected him for this.

This Macomber was an odd one though. Damned if he wasn‟t. Now the

wife. Well, the wife. Yes, the wife. Hm, the wife. Well he‟s dropped all

that. He looked around at them. Macomber sat grim and furious. Margot

smiled at him. She looked younger today, more innocent and fresher and

not so professionally beautiful. What‟s in her heart God knows, Wilson

thought. She hadn‟t talked much last night. At that it was a pleasure to

see her.

The motor car climbed up a slight rise and went on through the trees and

then out into a grassy prairie-like opening and kept in the shelter of the

trees along the edge, the driver going slowly and Wilson looking

carefully out across the prairie and all along its far side. He stopped the

car and studied the opening with his field glasses. Then he motioned to

the driver to go on and the car moved slowly along, the driver avoiding

wart-hog holes and driving around the mud castles ants had built. Then,

looking across the opening, Wilson suddenly turned and said,

“By God, there they are!”

And looking where he pointed, while the car jumped forward and

Wilson spoke in rapid Swahili to the driver, Macomber saw three huge,

black animals looking almost cylindrical in their long heaviness, like big

black tank cars, moving at a gallop across the far edge of the open

prairie. They moved at a stiff-necked, stiff bodied gallop and he could

see the upswept wide black horns on their heads as they galloped heads

out; the heads not moving.

“They‟re three old bulls,” Wilson said. “We‟ll cut them off before they

get to the swamp.”

The car was going a wild forty-five miles an hour across the open and as

Macomber watched, the buffalo got bigger and bigger until he could see

the gray, hairless, scabby look of one huge bull and how his neck was a

part of his shoulders and the shiny black of his horns as he galloped a

little behind the others that were strung out in that steady plunging gait;

and then, the car swaying as though it had just jumped a road, they drew

up close ands he could see the plunging hugeness of the bull, and the

dust in his sparsely haired hide, the wide boss of horn and his

outstretched, wide-nostrilled muzzle, and he was raising his rifle when

Wilson shouted, “Not from the car, you fool!” and he had no fear, only

hatred of Wilson, while the brakes clamped on and the car skidded,

plowing sideways to an almost stop and Wilson was out on one side and

he on the other, stumbling as his feet hit the still speeding-by of the

earth, and then he was shooting at the bull as he moved away, hearing

the bullets whunk into him, emptying his riffle at him as he moved

steadily away, finally remembering to get his shots forward into the

shoulder, and as he fumbled to reload, he saw the bull was down. Down

on his knees, his big head tossing, and seeing the other two still

galloping he shot at the leader and hit him. He shot again and missed

and he heard the carawonging roar as Wilson shot and saw the leading

15

bull slide forward onto his nose.

“Get that other,” Wilson said. “Now you‟re shooting!”

But the other bull was moving steadily at the same gallop and he

missed, throwing a spout of dirt, and Wilson missed and the dust rose in

a cloud and Wilson shouted, “Come on.” He‟s too far!” and grabbed his

arm and they were in the car again, Macomber and Wilson hanging on

the sides and rocketing swayingly over the uneven ground, drawing up

on the steady, plunging, heavy-necked, straight-moving gallop of the

bull.

They were behind him and Macomber was filling his rifle, dropping

shells onto the ground, jamming it, clearing the jam, then they were

almost up with the bull when Wilson yelled “Stop,” and the car skidded

so that it almost swung over and Macomber fell forward as he aimed

into the galloping, rounded black back, aimed and shot again, then

again, then again, and the bullets, all of them hitting, had no effect on

the buffalo that he could see. Then Wilson shot, the roar deafening him,

and he could see the bull stagger. Macomber shot again, aiming

carefully, and down he came, onto his knees.

“All right,” Wilson said. “Nice work. That‟s the three.”

Macomber felt a drunken elation.

“How many times did you shoot?” he asked.

“Just three,” Wilson said. “You killed the first bull. The biggest one. I

helped you finish the other two. Afraid they might have got into cover.

You had them killed. I was just mopping up a little. You shot damn

well.

“Let‟s go to the car,” said Macomber. “I want a drink.”

“Got to finish off that buff first,” Wilson told him. The buffalo was on

his knees and he jerked his head furiously and bellowed in pig-eyed,

roaring rage as they came toward him.

“Watch he doesn‟t get up,” Wilson said. Then, “Get a little broadside

and take him in the neck just behind the ear.”

Macomber aimed carefully at the center of the huge, jerking, rage-

driven neck and shot. At the shot the head dropped forward.

“That does it,” said Wilson. “Got the spine. They‟re a hell of a fine-

looking thing, aren‟t they?”

“Let‟s get the drink,” said Macomber. In his life he had never felt so

good.

“In the car Macomber‟s wife sat very white-faced. “You were

marvelous, darling,” she said to Macomber. “What a ride.”

“Was it rough?” Wilson asked.

“It was frightful. I‟ve never been more frightened in my life.”

“Let‟s all have a drink,” Macomber said.

“By all means,” said Wilson. “Give it to the Memsahib.” She drank the

neat whisky from the flask and shuddered a little when she swallowed.

She handed the flask to Macomber who handed it to Wilson.

“It was frightfully exciting,” she said. “It‟s given me a dreadful

headache. I didn‟t know you were allowed to shoot them from cars

though.”

“No one shot from cars,” said Wilson coldly.

“I mean chase them from cars.”

“Wouldn‟t ordinarily,” Wilson said. “Seemed sporting enough to me

though while we were doing it. Taking more chance driving that way

across the plain full of holes and one thing and another than hunting on

foot. Buffalo could have charged us each time we shot if he liked. Gave

him every chance. Wouldn‟t mention it to anyone though. It‟s illegal if

that‟s what you mean.”

“It seemed very unfair to me,” Margot said, “chasing those big helpless

16

things in a motor car.”

“Did it?” said Wilson.

“What would happen if they heard about it in Nairobi?”

“I‟d lose my license for one thing. Other unpleasantnesses,” Wilson

said, taking a drink from the flask. “I‟d be out of business.”

“Really?”

“Well,” said Macomber, and he smiled for the first time all day.

“Now she has something on you.”

“You have such a pretty way of putting things, Francis,” Margot

Macomber said. Wilson looked at them both. If a four-letter man

marries a five-letter woman, he was thinking, what number of letters

would their children be? What he said was, “We lost a gun-bearer. Did

you notice it?”

“My God, no,” Macomber said.

“Here he comes,” Wilson said. “He‟s all right. He must have fallen off

when we left the first bull.”

Approaching them was the middle-aged gun-bearer, limping along in his

knitted cap, khaki tunic, shorts and rubber sandals, gloomy-faced and

disgusted looking. As he came up he called out to Wilson in Swahili and

they all saw the change in the white hunter‟s face.

“What does he say?” asked Margot.

“He says the first bull got up and went into the bush,” Wilson said with

no expression in his voice.

“Oh,” said Macomber blankly.

“Then it‟s going to be just like the lion,” said Margot, full of

anticipation.

“It‟s not going to be a dammed bit like the lion,” Wilson told her. “Did

you want another drink Macomber?”

“Thanks, yes, Macomber said. He expected the feeling he had had about

the lion to come back but it did not. For the first time in his life he rally

felt wholly without fear. Instead of fear he had a feeling of definite

elation.

“We‟ll go and have a look at the second bull,” Wilson said. “I‟ll tell the

driver to put the car in the shade.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Margaret Macomber.

“Take a look at the buff,” Wilson said.

“I‟ll come.”

“Come along.”

The three of them walked over to where the second buffalo bulked

blackly in the open, head forward on the grass, the massive horns swung

wide.

“He‟s a very good head,” Wilson said. “That‟s close to a fifty-inch

spread.”

Macomber was looking at him with delight.

“He‟s hateful looking,” said Margot. “Can„t we go into the shade?”

“Of course,” Wilson said. “Look,” he said to Macomber, and pointed.

“See that patch of bush?”

“Yes.”

“That‟s where the first bull went in. The gun-bearer said when he fell

off the bull was down. He was watching us helling along and the other

two buff galloping. When he looked up there was the bull up and

looking at him. Gun-bearer ran like hell and the bull went off slowly

into the bush.”

17

“Can we go in after him now?” asked Macomber eagerly.

Wilson looked at him appraisingly. Damned if this isn‟t a strange one,

he thought. Yesterday he‟s scared sick and today he‟s a ruddy fire eater.

“No, we‟ll give him a while.”

“Let‟s please go into the shade,” Margot said. Her face was white and

she looked ill.

They made their way to the car where it stood under a single, wide-

spreading tree and all climbed in.

“Chances are he‟s dead in there,” Wilson remarked. “After a little we‟ll

have a look.”

Macomber felt a wild unreasonable happiness that he had never known

before.

“By God, that was a chase,” he said. “I‟ve never felt any such feeling.

Wasn‟t it marvelous, Margot?”

“I hated it.”

“Why?”

“I hated it,” she said bitterly. “I loathed it.”

“You know I don‟t think I‟d ever be afraid of anything again,”

Macomber said to Wilson. “Something happened in me after we first

saw the buff and started after him. Like a dam bursting. It was pure

excitement.”

“Cleans out your liver,” said Wilson.” Damn funny things happen to

people.”

Macomber‟s face was shining. “You know something did happen to

me,” he said. “I feel absolutely different.”

His wife said nothing and eyed him strangely. She was sitting far back

in the seat and Macomber was sitting forward talking to Wilson who

turned sideways talking over the back of the front seat.

“You know, I‟d like to try another lion,” Macomber said. “I‟m really not

afraid of them now. After all, what can they do to you?”

“That‟s it,” said Wilson. “Worst one can do is kill you. How does it go?

Shakespeare. Damned good. See if I can remember. Oh, damned good.

Used to quote it to myself at one time. Let‟s see. „By my troth, I care

not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which

way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next.‟ Damned fine,

oh?”

He was very embarrassed, having brought out this thing he had lived by,

but he had seen men come of age before and it always moved him. It

was not a matter of their twenty-first birthday.

It had taken a strange chance of hunting, a sudden precipitation into

action without opportunity for worrying beforehand, to bring this about

with Macomber, but regardless of how it had happened it had most

certainly happened. Look at the beggar now, Wilson thought. It‟s that

some of them stay little boys so long, Wilson thought. Sometimes all

their lives. Their figures stay boyish when they‟re fifty. The great

American boy-men. Damned strange people. But he like this Macomber

now. Damned strange fellow. Probably meant the end of cuckoldry too.

Well, that would be a damned good thing. Damned good thing. Beggar

had probably been afraid all his life. Don‟t know what started it. But

over now. Hadn‟t had time to be afraid with the buff. That and being

angry too. Motor car too. Motor cars made it familiar. Be a damn fire

eater now. He‟d seen it in the war work the same way. More of a change

than any loss of virginity. Fear gone like an operation. Something else

grew in its place. Main thing a man had. Made him into a man. Women

knew it too. No bloody fear.

From the far corner of the seat Margaret Macomber looked at the two of

them. There was no change in Wilson. She saw Wilson as she had seen

him the day before when she had first realized what his great talent was.

But she saw the change in Francis Macomber now.

18

“Do you have that feeling of happiness about what‟s going to happen?”

Macomber asked, still exploring his new wealth.

“You‟re not supposed to mention it,” Wilson said, looking in the other‟s

face. “Much more fashionable to say you‟re scared. Mind you, you‟ll be

scared too, plenty of times.”

But you have a feeling of happiness about action to come?”

“Yes,” said Wilson. “There‟s that. Doesn‟t do to talk too much about all

this. Talk the whole thing away. No pleasure in anything if you mouth it

up too much.

“You‟re both talking rot,” said Margot. “Just because you‟ve chased

some helpless animals in a motor car you talk like heroes.

“Sorry,” said Wilson. “I have been gassing too much.” She‟s worried

about it already, he thought.

“If you don‟t know what we‟re talking about why not keep out of it?”

Macomber asked his wife.

“You‟ve gotten awfully brave, awfully suddenly,” his wife said

contemptuously, but her contempt was not secure. She was very afraid

of something.

Macomber laughed, a very natural hearty laugh. “You know I have,” he

said. “I really have.”

“Isn‟t it sort of late?” Margot said bitterly. Because she had done the

best she could for many years back and the way they were together now

was no one person‟s fault.

“Not for me,” said Macomber.

Margot said nothing but sat back in the corner of the seat.

“Do you think we‟ve given him time enough?” Macomber asked Wilson

cheerfully.

“We might have a look,” Wilson said. “Have you any solids left?”

“The gun-bearer has some.”

Wilson called in Swahili and the older gun-bearer, who was skinning

out one of the heads, straightened up, pulled a box of solids out of his

pocket end brought them over to Macomber, who filled his magazine

and put the remaining shells in his pocket.

“You might as well shoot the Springfield,” Wilson said. “You‟re used to

it. We‟ll leave the Mannlicher in the car with the Memsahib. Your gun-

bearer can carry your heavy gun. I‟ve this damned cannon. Now let me

tell you about them.” He had saved this until the last because he did not

want to worry Macomber. “When a buff comes he comes with his head

high and thrust straight out. The boss of the horns covers any sort of a

brain shot. The only shot is straight into the nose. The only other shot is

into his chest or, if you‟re to one side, into the neck or the shoulders.

After they‟ve been hit once they take a hell of a lot of killing. Don‟t try

anything fancy. Take the easiest shot there is. They‟ve finished skinning

out that head now. Should we get started.?”

He called to the gun-bearers, who came up wiping their hands, and the

older one got into the back.

“I‟ll only take Kongoni,” Wilson said. “The other can watch to keep the

birds away.”

As the car moved slowly across the open space toward the island of

brushy trees that ran in a tongue of foliage along a dry water course that

cut the open swale, Macomber felt his heart pounding and his mouth

was dry again, but it was excitement, not fear.

“Here‟s where he went in,” Wilson said. Then to the gun-bearer in

Swahili, “Take the blood spoor.”

The car was parallel to the patch of bush. Macomber, Wilson and the

gun-bearer got down. Macomber, looking back, saw his wife, with the

rifle by her side, looking at him. He waved to her and she did not wave

back.

19

The brush was very thick ahead and the ground was dry. The middle-

aged gun-bearer was sweating heavily and Wilson had his hat down

over his eyes and his red neck showed just ahead of Macomber.

Suddenly the gun-bearer said something in Swahili to Wilson and ran

forward.

“He‟s dead in there,” Wilson said. “Good work,” and he turned to grip.

Macomber‟s hand and as they shook hands, grinning at each other, the

gun-bearer shouted wildly and they saw him coming out of the bush

sideways, fast as a crab, and the bull coming, nose out, mouth tight

closed, blood dripping, missive head straight out, coming in a charge,

his little pig eyes bloodshot as he looked at them. Wilson who was

ahead was kneeling shooting, and Macomber, as he fired, unhearing his

shot in the roaring of Wilson‟s gun, saw fragments like slate burst from

the huge boss of the horns, and the head jerked, he shot again at the

wide nostrils and saw the horns jolt again and fragment fly, and he did

not see Wilson now and, aiming carefully, shot again with the buffalo‟s

huge bulk almost on him and his rifle almost level with the on-coming

head, nose out, and he could see the little wicked eyes and the head

started to lower and he felt a sudden white-hot, blinding flash explode

inside his head and that was all he ever felt.

Wilson had ducked to one side to get in a shoulder shot. Macomber had

stood solid and shot for the nose, shooting a touch high each time and

hitting the heavy horns, splintering and chipping them like hitting a slate

roof, and Mrs. Macomber, in the car, had shot at the buffalo with the 6.5

Mannlicher as it seemed about to gore Macomber and had hit her

husband about two inches up and a little to one side of the base of his

skull.

Francis Macomber lay now, face down, not two yards from where the

buffalo lay on his side and his wife knelt over him with Wilson beside

her.

“I wouldn‟t turn him over,” Wilson said.

The woman was crying hysterically.

“I‟d get back in the car,” Wilson said. “Where‟s the rifle?”

She shook her head, her face contorted. The gun-bearer picked up the

rifle.

Leave it as it is,” said Wilson. Then, “Go get Abdulla so that he may

witness the manner of the accident.”

He knelt down, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and spread it over

Francis Macomber‟s crew-cropped head where it lay. The blood sank

into the dry, loose earth.

Wilson stood up and saw the buffalo on his side, his legs out, his thinly-

haired belly crawling with ticks. “Hell of a good bull,” his brain

registered automatically. “A good fifty inches, or better. Better.” He

called to the driver and told him to spread a blanket over the body and

stay by it. Then he walked over to the motor car where the woman sat

crying in the corner.

“That was a pretty thing to do,” he said in a toneless voice. “He would

have left you too.”

“Stop it,” she said.

“Of course it‟s an accident,” he said. “I know that.”

“Stop it,” she said.

“Don‟t worry,” he said. “There will be a certain amount of

unpleasantness but I will have some photographs taken that will be very

useful at the inquest. There‟s the testimony of the gun-bearer and the

driver too. You‟re perfectly all right.”

“Stop it,” she said.

“There‟s a hell of a lot to be done,” he said. “And I‟ll have to send a

truck off to the lake to wireless for a plane to take the three of us into

Nairobi. Why didn‟t you poison him? That‟s what they do in England.”

“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it,” the woman cried.

Wilson looked at her with his flat blue eyes.

20

“I‟m through now,” he said. “I was a little angry. I‟d begun to like your

husband.”

“Oh, please stop it,” she said. “Please, please stop it.”

“That‟s better,” Wilson said. “Please is much better. Now I‟ll stop.”