“It’s not going to be a damned 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 really 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 dose 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 that bush.”
“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.
