Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 126: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

124 ‘Bo Diare, who in turn had looked ahead, announced conclusively— “He be bull—big too much!”’ Peller glanced at the sinking sun behind him, saw the red disc half-hidden by the far bushes, and hesitated. “Have we got time before night?” he asked. “Vessah,”’ Bo Diare agreed immediately. Peller struggled between his strict duty, and the possibility of a good shot. Hunting was a passion with him. The animal was very near the French bank, he argued, and in any case, the paddlers needed meat. “Tell the men paddle softly,” he ordered. Bo Diare spoke to the leader, who grunted an answer. “He say he think better go for land. Maybe hippo get mad, smash canoe,” Bo Diare advised. “Tell him make for land.” The canoe pointed toward the left bank. Yatera had seen, and given like orders. Peller landed on a narrow sand ledge. The canoes were dragged on shore. The white man took his rifle, gave instructions to the tirailleurs to watch their charge. Bo Diare was to act as his guide. The Ouolof was as fond of hunting as his superior, and was afar abler bushman. With a last word to Yatera, who took command in Bo Diare’s absence, Sergeant Peller followed the cor- poral into the tall grass. Five minutes brought them to the edge of the thick bush. Bo Diare searched until he found a wild pig-run that would take them in the direc- tion desired. ‘The Ouolof explained that the path was probably used by the pigs to go to the river-bank for water, and would bring them very close to their quarry. A short walk, and, between the boles of two great trees, Peller had a clear view of the river and of the big bull. There were others of the huge beasts—two, three, four, five, Peller counted. But he could not, in de- cency, shoot more than one. All but the bull were in deep water. The distance was scarcely sixty feet. The huge target was motionless, save for an occasional yawn. Carefully, Peller braced his rifle against a branch, aimed, pressed the trigger. A shot. The bull leaped high out of the water, splashed back and bellowed. The others disappeared. The wounded beast turned as if to make for deep water, but another shot halted him. He rolled on his side, his wet Adventure flank emerging. Blood came to the surface, floating slowly down-stream. “Meat,” Bo Diare said, coolly. After a short wait, to make sure that the bull was quite dead, he crashed down to the water, waded in. In the semi-darkness, his great teeth flashed in a grin. | “Big, big, oh, he be big!”’ Peller followed him, trembling with ex- citement. The animal was a monster in size. A quick examination flattered his vanity. Both shots had gone through the head. “Call the men,” he ordered. Bo Diare’s mouth flew open, and a screech shrilled through the trees. He repeated this call four times, until a like shout answered from the landing-place. “That be Yatera,’”’ the corporal stated. He shouted again, this time in Mandigo dialect, which was understood by all the tirailleurs. Peller, thigh deep in water, turned around his huge victim, complacently measuring him with outspread fingers. He would be called a liar by his good friends at the Bak- kasu Post, but he would prove his point by an exhibition of the tusks, and strips of the thick hide, which could be made into chicottes, the raw-hide whips prized as souve- nirs. In mid-stream, nostrils appeared, eye bumps. The other animals were curious. Peller was tempted, but restrained himself with effort. The bodies, sinking in deep water, would not float up, until long after his departure. “Here be men,” Bo Diare announced. Through the bushes appeared a straggling line. Six Yakomas and four trazlleurs! The sergeant paled. He had taken it for granted that the corporal would summon only one soldier and ten Yakomas. The Ouolof had called for the crew of the first canoe, and Yatera was left alone, in charge of the invaluable cargo, with eight Yakomas. The tivailleurs, who despised the native pad- dlers, had no thought of fear. But con- tempt is not always safe. It was impossible to blame Bo Diare, who was, after all, only a negro and depended on his white chief for orders. Too late now to question what he had shouted, or to blame Yatera for the blunder. After all, he had only himself to blame, and the excitement that had come over him when he saw the huge hulk in the water. “Get the teeth, and some meat,”’ he said to Bo Diare. “I’m going back now.” COMICLOOCkKS. GO