The Leopard Woman | Page 3

at the
sight of the two dropping to a crouch, had stopped as though petrified,
and stood waiting in silence.
"We have no meat," Simba reminded his master in Swahili.
The white man eased himself back to a sitting posture, resting his
elbows on his knees, as all sensible good rifle shots do when they have
the chance. Simba, his eyes glowing fiercely, staring with almost
hypnotic intensity over his master's shoulder, quivered like an eager
dog.
"Hah!" he grunted as the loud spat of the bullet followed the rifle's
crack. "_Na kamata_--he has it!" he added as the wildebeeste plunged
into full view.
The hunter manipulated the bolt to throw in a new cartridge, but did not
shift his position. In less remote countries the sportsman, unlimited in
ammunition but restricted in chances, would probably have pumped in
four or five shots until the quarry was down. The traveller and Simba
watched closely, with expert eyes, to determine whether a precious
second cartridge should be expended.

"Where?" asked the white man briefly.
"Low in the shoulder," replied Simba.
The wildebeeste plunged wildly here and there, kicking, bucking,
menacing the unseen danger with his horns. For several seconds longer
the two watched, then rose leisurely to their feet. Simba motioned to
the waiting safari, who, correctly interpreting the situation, broke into a
trot. Both Simba and his master knew that had the animal not received
a mortal wound it would before this have whirled to look back. The fact
that it still ran proved its extremity. Sure enough, within the hundred
yards it suddenly plunged forward on its nose, rolled over, and lay still.
The fierce countenance of the gun bearer lit up in triumph. He shifted
the heavy rifle and reached out to touch the lighter weapon resting
again in the crook of his master's arm.
"_Nyama Yangu! Nyama Yangu!_" he murmured. That was Simba's
name for the light rifle that did most of the shooting. The words meant
simply "my meat." Simba had a name for everything from the sheath
knife of his office to the white man himself. Indeed Culbertson in the
Central countries was Culbertson to none. Should you inquire for news
of him by that name news you could not obtain; but of Bwana Kingozi
you might learn from many tribes and peoples.
But now the safari, topping the hill, swept down with a rapid fire of
safari sticks against the loads and a chorus whose single word was
"_n'yama!_"
Simba was already at the carcass, _Kisu M'kubwa_, his thin-bladed
knife, in his hand. The men eased their loads to the ground, and stood
about with eagerly gleaming eyes, as would well-trained dogs in like
circumstances. Simba briefly indicated the three nearest to act as his
assistants. The wildebeeste was rapidly skinned and as rapidly
dismembered, the meat laid aside. Only once did the white man speak
or manifest the slightest interest.
"_Sarrara indani yangu_--the tenderloin is mine."

The wizened little headman with the umbrella and the kiboko, who
answered to the name of Cazi Moto, stepped forward and took charge
of the indicated delicacy. Soon all was ready for a resumption of the
march. Nothing was left of the wildebeeste save the head and the
veriest offal. The stomach and intestines, even, had been emptied of
their contents and packed away in the hide.
Already the carrion birds had gathered in incredible numbers. The sky
was full of them circling; an encompassing ring of them sat a scant fifty
yards distant, their wings held half out from their bodies, as though
they felt overheated. And in the low bushes could be discerned the
lurking, furtive, shadowy jackals.
The men were laughing, their weariness forgotten. Maulo, the camp
humourist, declaimed loudly at the top of his lungs, mocking the
marabouts, the buzzards, the vultures great and small, the kites and the
eagles.
"Go to the lion," he cried, "he kills much, and leaves. Little meat will
you get here. We keep what we get!"
And the men broke into meaningless but hearty laughter, as though at
brilliant wit.
But Bwana Kingozi's low voice cut across the merriment.
"_Bandika!_" he commanded.
And immediately Cazi Moto and Simba took up the cry.
"_Bandika! bandika! bandika!_" they vociferated over and over. Cazi
Moto moved here and there, lively as a cricket, his eyes alert for any
indication of slackness, his kiboko held threateningly.
But there was no need for the latter. The men willingly enough swung
aloft their loads, now augmented by the meat, and the little caravan
moved on.

Scarcely had Cazi Moto, bringing up the rear, quitted the scene when
the carrion birds swooped. They fell from the open sky like plummets,
their wings half folded. When within ten feet of the ground they
checked their fall with pinion